


Winter of the Wheel

by FluffyPaws



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drama, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pansexual Character, Tragedy, guest starring those obnoxious crows and their dailies, polyamorous elves vs alinor, yep it's a midquel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-06-10 10:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15289533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPaws/pseuds/FluffyPaws
Summary: In the wake of the Oblivion Crisis and his betrayal of Summerset, the Gray Fox flees. An encounter with an ancient mer draws him back out of the shadows, into a new life centered around the whims of Talos and the reach of the Thalmor.





	1. The Goddess of Shadows

The life of a thief is not a glamorous one, despite the many legends told of the Gray Fox. Those were tales that would end with the first spring of the Fourth Era, as the newest of their line crept through the Colovian highlands, on a stolen mare, his mind far from ideas of any more great heists or grand adventures.

Kyndoril, self-exiled lord of Luxurene, had no ambitions but to become a living ghost. It was pure necessity. Theft of an Elder Scroll had been heinous enough without being framed for a large count of murders. The theft alone was reason enough for Cyrodiil to seek him out and, in the name of Zenithar, drag him back to the Imperial City.

Not a desirable reunion, Kyndoril thought as two faces strayed into his mind – the first belonging to the High Chancellor, who would never understand, and the second to High Kinlord Silabaene of Firsthold, the murderer.

As the sun drifted further to his left, Kyndoril began to examine the ground. And he spotted a glint of marble between the oaks. The Ayleids had one redeeming quality, and it was that they had not discarded the Aldmeri practice of burrowing beneath Y'ffre's green earth for the sake of creating vast underground libraries, treasure vaults, temples, and catacombs. Much like the ruins dotting the wilderness of Summerset, the Ayleid basements of Cyrodiil had survived where time, warfare, and the elements had all but erased the cities above.

To Kyndoril, these ruins were sanctuaries. Haunted, but sanctuaries nonetheless. There was merely the matter of letting himself in and finding a good place to make an offering, be it an altar, Aetherial well, or anything elevated above the floor. A bit of food seemed modest when his own rations were low. And then there was the matter of prayer, to make sure the dead got the message.

“Spirits, forgive my trespass,” Kyndoril whispered. “Accept this humble potato in exchange for shelter.”

The potato sat there, as vegetables do. The magicka of the ruins shifted, and he sensed a grudging cessation of ghostly hostility.

“Thank you, spirits. Gods bless and keep you.”

There would be other potatoes. And perhaps pickled cabbage, and maybe even some smith's cooking pot if he were lucky. Maybe he could even shift some coin to compensate for the iron and trouble, if he found someone worth robbing of their gold first. And maybe one day, looking back, he would see the irony in trying to be virtuous while robbing the good people of their vegetables and cookware. No, wait, there was the irony, staring him in the face.

But what was his other option? Begging for meals? If that even worked, it would all end when the Black Horse Courier or the guards reached them. The life of a fugitive required practicality, if it was to continue at all. Theft was a necessity, and guilt a thing to suppress.

–

The cawing of crows roused him from his sleep. But, no, perhaps he'd imagined it. Who could hear the birds sing from underground?

Kyndoril started to wonder about the strength of his ears when he saw a ruffling of black feathers on a low branch near Maborel's horse. Which, he considered, did deserve a name. She had given him her loyalty after all.

“What did Maborel call you?” Kyndoril patted the horse's withers. “'Beast' and 'horse' do not suit such a noble creature.”

The horse lowered her head and began tearing grass from the forest floor.

“Right. You shall be Wenaya Naganwe, the death of green things. But for simplicity's sake I will call you Wen.”

Wen continued eating, because she was a horse and did not care about her new name. Kyndoril looked up again. The crows were still there. And their feathers had an eerie violet sheen. Which, now that they had his attention, had something to do with magic. Foul magic.

“By the empyrean light,” Kyndoril said, “go away.”

“At last! He greets us!” screeched one of the birds.

Wen, finally distracted from her breakfast, wanted nothing to do with them. She trotted off to find a better patch of grass.

“No, I'm telling you to leave. I've stooped low enough as it is, and I will not traffic with daedra.”

“Oh, but he's already dealt with our mistress!” said the other bird. “He has the cowl!”

The first bird flapped its wings. “The cowl! The cowl!”

Kyndoril thought of the daedric artifact sitting in his bag. It wasn't as if he'd asked for it. “The cowl was gift from a human. Charity, in fact. I've never spoken a word with your Prince.”

“Does he want to?”

“No. Emphatically, no.”

“She requires your attention, elf. You must answer her summons!”

“I will not.”

“He would have us return with empty beaks!”

Kyndoril watched the two birds with growing fright and exasperation. On one hand, they were birds. On the other, any actual attention from a Daedric Prince seemed like the worst idea.

But, they were crows.... Kyndoril fumbled with his bag and found his coin purse. His pitiful purse. And he drew two coins. “I've got something better. Er... a tribute? It is meager, but....”

“Shinies!”

The other crow tried to contain its excitement. “Thieves used to bring us silver dishes. Goblets. Mirrors and ornaments from the courts of kings. But, this will have to do!”

“We accept!”

“Yes! We will accept it!”

The crows flapped over to his arm, perched there just long enough to take his gold, and flew away. And Kyndoril began mentally screaming to the Aedra, praying that he would never hear from Nocturnal again.

So he had a daedric artifact. So it was infused with Nocturnal's unholy power, and that might have been more than enough reason for her to take notice of his mortal existence. And he might have acknowledged that when speaking to Umaril. And he might have found some hope that Nocturnal's power would keep him safe.

Who was he kidding? He had doomed himself back in Anvil.

“Mara, have mercy,” he whispered. “Aedra, have mercy. Mara....”

Mara was troubled, but not without compassion. That much, he felt. He drew on that hope for strength while he collected his horse and slipped back into the trees.

–

The crows did not pursue him right away. Instead he was left to continue his path through the wilderness as the days lengthened and the air grew warm. Soon, towering clouds roiled in the skies of Cyrodiil and wind and rain lashed the hills.

Days like that found him huddled in whatever shelter he found find, with whatever he could manage to burn for a fire. Even wet twigs burned when heated long enough with a bit of magic. And then there were the wanted posters, which he made a point to quietly take down whenever he passed through a village.

Kyndoril paused in the middle of building another campfire, this time near the entrance of a cave, and looked at his own artistically rendered visage. The face was too narrow, the chin too long and sharp, the cheekbones jutted out far too much. Humans had strange ways of depicting elves. The one feature they got right was his long hair.

Kyndoril rolled up the poster and slid it underneath the burning kindling, then watched as it began to smoke and curl.

“Ten-thousand septims,” he muttered to himself. “Leave it to the Empire to underpay the poor fool who catches a mass-murderer.”

As the flames crackled, he pulled his latest prizes out of his bag: a hefty bundle of smoked sausage, a loaf of bread, and a steel knife. And he started to consider the strategy of being a notorious thief.

Travel was a pain. Settling near one remote village would give him access to whatever he needed. But was it worth the risk of being discovered? And that was a risk he took no matter where he went, but movement was worth staying away from the Imperial manhunt.

“This is why Luxurene treats criminals with a light hand. So they don't have to go squat in the Forest of Light or the sea caves.”

As he thought of his home, his thoughts turned to Firsthold and Silabaene. Maybe it would have been safer to obey, he thought. If he had intended to deliver the scroll, would Silabaene have waited for him in his chambers? But, that might have been a trap all along. Would the trap have been set if he had not given the mer reason to hate him?

Would groveling in Skingrad have helped? Or, better yet, would it have worked in Anvil? No. No. If he'd given him an impossible task after that in the Imperial City, would it have ever worked?

Perhaps he should have stayed on Luxurene. Handled the Thalmor himself. Been more cautious with the High Kinlord of Firsthold. Been more of a kinlord.

The thoughts, as they always did, ate at him until he passed out.

And at once, his dreams echoed his sorrow. He stood at the cliffs, looking down over the landscape of his isle. The forest, where welwas and indriks roamed. The village beyond that. The citrus orchards and rice fields in the distance. But Luxurene sat under a veil of clouds, its magic subdued.

Another force lurked nearby. He turned to face the hills, where gryphons should have nested, and instead saw a woman. A woman with her dark robe open, exposing the middle of her chest and belly. It was a look he admittedly wanted to try for himself, but there was little time to study it.

Crows sat on the woman's shoulders, flapping their wings as she spoke to him in a voice dripping with false pity. “Oh, my poor kinlord....”

“Madam.”

“You've been lost and alone for so long....”

“Nonsense. I've a horse.”

“And now Cyrodiil hunts for you, unwittingly.... Unaware that their own champion is innocent of the deaths that they seek to avenge.”

“All right. Listen. Nocturnal. Because I know who you are. I heard what happened in Summerset during the Three Banners War, so forgive me for not trusting anything you have to offer.”

At once, Nocturnal grew in size, until she stood twice his height, and looked down at him with scorn. A snarl at his side drew his attention; the golden Wolf had come to face the Prince of Shadows.

“So Lorkhan's bitch reveals herself at last,” said Nocturnal. “You have no power in my realm, goddess of whelps.”

“I have the ear of Meridia!” barked the Wolf. “If so much as one feather touches my child, you will know Dawnbreaker's wrath again!”

He had never heard such anger in Mara's voice. Then again, he had never seen Mara face a Daedric Prince. She had kept well out of the way for the encounter with Hermaeus Mora. And Meridia had not opposed her when she arrived to cast Umaril's soul into Aetherius.

“I am not here to harm this... child of yours, was he? I merely require his attention. And his deference where it is due.”

Kyndoril looked to Mara, who nodded. And he lifted his eyes to look at Nocturnal again. “Lady Nocturnal. I know I carry your cowl. If you've come to reclaim it, then take it. I never wished for this life.”

“Oh? And what will I hear next, when the Empire corners you and you have nowhere to run? A plea for help? A regretful prayer lamenting the loss of my cowl? Keep it.”

“Aren't there better thieves, more deserving of your power? Or did you have plans for me?”

“You stole the Prophecy of the Wheel from under the nose of its mortal guardians and snatched your own fate from death's grip.”

“A mage helped.”

“Your destiny is not going to be found in a cave or the wilting harvests that you take from these peasants. Go north, as your goddess of tears commands. I will be watching.”

 


	2. Beneath Rielle

At first, Kyndoril tried to ignore Nocturnal's advice. Though Mara had once told him to head north, doing so at the order of a Daedric Prince was apraxis, if such things even mattered anymore considering his bounty and what Summerset would surely hear, if Silabaene had not delivered the news already.

What drove him into the Jerall Mountains was the sudden presence of the Imperial Legion and the keen eyes of a human. He had scarcely disappeared behind a log pile, bag of produce and smoked meat clutched to his chest, when half a dozen legionnaires and guards sped by and went to scour the woods.

With a silent curse for Nocturnal, Kyndoril threw a muffling charm over himself and worked his way back around the houses, the sheds, the barn until he found Wen. She snorted as he muffled her hooves, and they rode north.

Despite the passage of seasons and the approach of summer, and the thawing of the snow, the Jerall Mountains remained fairly cool. The breeze soon chilled him as he rode. And as he approached the fringes of Bruma, marble against green caught his eye.

He recalled his history. The location fit the description of an ancient city – Rielle.

He drew closer, and the archways and steps urged him on. Unnerved, but curious, he dismounted Wen, spent a moment patting her soft nose for his own reassurance, then gathered his bundle of firewood and supplies and descended into the city's underground.

Rielle seemed barren. Other Ayleid ruins had shown signs of life – remains of campfires where explorers had rested, waste from animals that had managed to enter, and bones of those who had somehow disturbed the dead or met betrayal. The vast emptiness and silence of Rielle terrified him. Though he crept slowly, used magic to peer into the darkness, and paid close attention to his ears, there was simply nothing to be found.

That was until he had passed far into the depths and felt the brush of waning magicka. As soon as he recovered from being frightened out of his skin, he sought it out. It led to a door, one sealed with a spell that thankfully his magic was able to undo. A panel in the wall drew back, then slid aside, revealing another chamber.

At first, he thought it was a tomb. Upright coffins of stone, sealed by transparent lids of welkynd glass, leaned against the walls. He gathered his courage and approached for a better look.

Most of the bodies were mer, especially Ayleids in fine clothing and jewelry. The remains had only begun to desiccate by the look of them. Some of the less wealthy entombed might have been Bretons, though it seemed they still bore long ears at the time of their burial. Then there were Betmer: Khajiit, Argonian. His eyes fell on a furred face with a long, vulpine snout and ears that would put any elf to shame. Then a body with glossy feathers.

Above one coffin, he saw a light. A white varla stone rested there, still giving off a faint glow. And as he looked back to the rest of the chamber, he spotted more stones, all lifeless and dull. And he grew afraid.

The Ayleids were known for their more extreme deeds. They trafficked with daedra and performed terrible experiments upon mortals. They saw themselves as the true heirs of the gods and masters of Tamriel. The purpose of the room became clear: he'd stumbled upon some attempt to preserve the King of Rielle... and a menagerie of people.

The only magicka in the room came from the varla stone and the entombed victim before him. So, he did the only thing he could think of – the only thing that seemed right. He called upon his own magicka and forced the lid open, for the sake of the person within.

Kyndoril found a mer: a very brown woman, with stark white hair and long Aldmeri ears, resting peacefully in a woolen gown. And she had not begun to waste as the others had. He took her hand, and his heart skipped. She was still warm, and a pulse twitched underneath his fingers.

“Stars above,” Kyndoril whispered. “Wake. Please. Wake.”

Her breast rose and fell as she took in air again, and her brow and mouth began to twitch.

“Come on, wake up. It's all right. I'm a friend.”

The mer's eyes snapped open. And she gasped and pulled her hand away, and began to speak in an unrecognizable tongue. One that might have been human. As she turned her head in search of something, he remembered. He had given himself sight in the dark, but she had little to go by. So he dispelled the charm over his eyes and cast a light for both of them.

The mer paused, stared at him, and then tried a strange form of Aldmeris. When Kyndoril did not understand, she huffed and squinted at him.

“Are they gone?” Her words were Ayleidoon, but her accent was somewhat rough, throaty, familiar and yet so hard to place. “Have the humans left?”

Kyndoril made his best effort to reply in her chosen dialect. “You're safe now.”

He offered his hand again. And she took it and stepped out of the coffin, wobbling at the knees and clinging to his elbows for life. There would be no walking – not immediately at least. Kyndoril gently lowered her to the floor and sat down, while she asked more questions.

“How long was I asleep? King Dynar. Where is he? Does he still live? And Borgas....”

The Ayleids' role had already made it obvious, but confronted by the living, it sank in at last. He was dealing with a _very_ old mer, trapped in time far longer than anyone should have been forced to endure. He reached for words that he hoped would ease her mind.

“Borgas? King of the Nords? He is dead. King Dynar saved many lives and lived for a long time, but he has passed to Aetherius.”

“What of the others?”

Her eyes searched the room for signs of life. And Kyndoril slowly shook his head. “I'm sorry.”

“Shit....”

“I did not know them, but I grieve with you.”

The woman said nothing. And Kyndoril realized, she had passed out. But her breathing was strong. And she seemed content to snore there. So he covered her with his cloak and went to work making camp.

–

The mer who had survived millennia underground had little interest in conversation. She would eat and drink when he offered, and she slept frequently, sometimes falling into muttering things in her ancient human tongue.

“If you would permit a question,” Kyndoril began, passing her the waterskin, “I've been wondering something.”

“What?”

“Might I ask your name?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

She grinned over the mouth of the waterskin. “I said you could ask.”

While he was stunned, she sat back and laughed. It was a strange sound to hear after such a long time avoiding company.

“I was discourteous in not asking sooner,” admitted Kyndoril. “My name is....”

He hesitated, then thought. His name only invited trouble, now.

“What is it?” the woman asked. “Are you not allowed your name? Come to think of it.... You smell terrible and you look like you lost a fight with a goat.”

Kyndoril knew that answering would cost her opinion of him, but better to answer sooner than let her discover the terrible truth in an unfortunate way. “I wronged another kinlord of Summerset. Sorely. I chose exile in Cyrodiil. And... Cyrodiil placed a bounty on my head for someone else's murder spree, so there is that. I can't even live among the humans like this.”

“Ah. Life in disgrace instead of honor in death. That is one way to be brave.”

“I would not be offered an honorable death. But apparently I have much to learn of Ayleids.”

“What?”

“Are you... not Ayleid?”

She did not answer.

“Chimeri, perhaps? Or... Dw–”

She shook her head. “Just call me Sillawe.”

“As you wish, Sillawe. I am Kyndoril. And... I hate to say this, but we are nearly out of supplies.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing. Here was the problem of being an admitted fugitive.

“Come with me?” Kyndoril asked. “Stars know I've squandered my chances, but... you! You could make a life in Cyrodiil now.”

“Let us say I go with you,” said Sillawe. “What will you do? You are like... a baby cat. Except your hair is full of your own dirt and everyone hates you.”

Kyndoril stared. The honesty was brutal, yet refreshing. “I've... just been stealing food to survive.”

“Well. That is better than being dead. Where are the rest of the elves?”

“Well... this place is all ruled by humans. Few here speak Ayleidoon these days and I have no idea what the rest of your languages are.”

Sillawe groaned and brought her palm to her forehead. “I am stuck with the criminal. Fine. Where are we supposed to go?”

“Just let me think. I'll figure something out. I can't get you out of this place just to get you in trouble, after all....”

If Sillawe was to have a decent life in Cyrodiil, without resorting to crime, she needed some sort of sponsor. Or charity. Which, he supposed, would not be useless to him either, if only he could find someone who would grant him that.

Bruma was near. Cloud Ruler Temple was north of that, but how would the Blades view him if they were so loyal to the Ruby Throne?

Kyndoril froze. There was... one place that might offer shelter, even to the despised. It was a terrible risk to take. But for another person? For the chance of finding an end to his days in hiding?

“Ancestors preserve me,” Kyndoril whispered. “This will work, for you at least. If they won't take me, well, I'll find a way. I always manage somehow, don't I?”

–

Sillawe had some trouble leaving Rielle behind. It was not emotion that hindered her. She took her time making an angry gesture at a rotting Ayleid and spared a prayer for the rest of the dead before they left that chamber. But she did have trouble climbing stairs, and needed an arm to grip to maintain her balance at times. She cursed the magic of the Ayleids. It had preserved her, but her strength had waned over thousands of years. Kyndoril heard Trinimac's name through gritted teeth as she stumbled.

When they finally emerged to daylight, she wept and offered prayers in human and elven words while he gathered Wen. The mare was strong enough to support them both, to carry them from that cruel place.

As they rode, Kyndoril continued to fret over her health. She could sleep if she needed. That was fine. He would not let her fall. But the winds were cool.

“Take my cloak?” he offered. “I can manage without it.”

“Keep it.”

“Please. You've been unwell.”

Sillawe did not answer for a minute. In time, Kyndoril would understand why, and wonder if she had been rolling her eyes over this concern. But she accepted the pathetic cloak that he offered.

Later she demanded that he take it back, because she could feel him shiver.

–

Before they got too close to the city, Kyndoril reined Wen to a halt and dismounted to rummage through his things. Returning to human society mere weeks after being sighted was a terrible idea, but so was staying in the wilderness.

He called every image of his guardian goddess to mind. The Wolf. The Mother Aedra.

Mara forgive me, he prayed, but I do this for my new companion.

And then he thought of Nocturnal. Lady of Shadows, if I could only borrow you for a minute. I admit that I am a puny mortal in need of assistance.

He withdrew the cowl from his bag, then examined it. It was gray and stitched with blue runes, but there was a nagging question on his mind. What good was a legendary thief's cowl if it was recognizable?

“Sillawe, when I put this on, I need you to tell me who I am. What I look like. Please.”

Kyndoril pulled the cowl over his head.

“Oh, by.... What is that?”

“Well? Come on, you know me.”

“Take that off.”

He did. “Was the mask gray and creepy?”

“Yes. So... wait. That cowl hides you. Nobody will recognize you in that. I didn't and you are the only living face that I know.”

“Exactly. But there is a catch. Everyone knows what the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal looks like, especially the guards.”

“Does it have to cover your face completely?”

“You know, I have not thought of that.”

Kyndoril folded the bottom of the cowl inward, so that it looked like a strange, over-large cap with eye-holes, and tried again, being careful to tuck in the flaps. Sillawe's eyes widened again and Wen began to shy away. He removed the cowl again.

“Nocturnal, you sneaky bastard,” Kyndoril whispered. “I bet I could have been wearing this under my pants the whole time and none would have been the wiser.”

“Do that again,” said Sillawe. “Make it into a little hat! Then... is that a priest robe? Could you wear the hood to cover the cowl so nobody sees the daedric parts?”

And that is exactly what he did. “We can't rely on this,” he said. “It is only temporary. I will need to reveal myself when we find shelter.”

“Right, right,” said Sillawe. “Just.... do whatever it is you were planning on doing.”

Kyndoril took Wen's reins and began leading her up the winding path to Bruma. No shouts rose as they neared the gates. Wooden houses and the distant castle walls came into easy view. The guards' eyes passed over them, as Kyndoril held his breath and thought of every god who might shield them.

And so he smuggled himself and Sillawe into Bruma.

 


	3. Whims of Lorkhan

“This is the Great Chapel of Talos.”

Kyndoril supported Sillawe over the threshold and toward the pews. Her head turned as she looked across the room, at the stained glass windows, the little shrines in front of the images of each Divine, and the altar.

“Who is Talos?” she whispered.

“You have nothing to fear, for this is also a house of Auri-El under the name of Akatosh, and Mara, and Stendarr. But Talos is Lorkhan. I will explain everything when I can, I promise. For now, I need to find a man.”

“Where is he?”

“I... don't know yet. Will you be comfortable in the pews?”

“You want privacy, eh? All right. Just help me over there and go find this man.”

Kyndoril helped Sillawe find a place to sit. Then, it did not take long to find the primate. Arentus Falvius, dressed in his favored green and standing before the image of Kynareth, stood out in all the gray and brown. Kyndoril swallowed his dignity and made his approach before he could lose courage.

“Your Grace,” Kyndoril whispered. “I request an audience, in private if you are willing.”

“Hm? There's no need to be so....” The Primate of Talos paused and regarded him carefully. Kyndoril still wore the cowl out of sight, but that apparently did not deflect Arentus' suspicions. “Yes? What do you need?”

“I would only trust you with this. I... seek help from the Divines. But I must ask for your help as well.”

“Fine. Come downstairs, and we will speak.”

Kyndoril followed the priest. And as soon as they had descended into the chapel hall and shut the door, he reached beneath his hood, slipped the folded cowl off his head, and declared his intentions.

“I seek sanctuary,” he told Arentus, watching his face pale. “I know what you must have heard. But I am no murderer.”

“You? Where did...? Why did you come _here_? Were you followed?”

“No guards,” said Kyndoril. “But I've brought a woman who needs whatever help you can give her. She's... very weak. She can barely walk without help. Please, you must–”

“Leave her and go. We'll take care of her, but we can't risk harboring you.”

Kyndoril thought quickly. “She doesn't speak a word of common Tamrielic. I can translate for her. And... I have nowhere else to hide.”

Arentus turned away and grimaced at the far wall. “Elf....”

“Your Grace, you _know_ me. I came here with Martin Septim, went into Oblivion for him. Martin, who once hid me in the Great Chapel of Akatosh as a monk. And now I seek the aid of Talos.”

“And how will you pay your debt to the gods?” Arentus asked him. “Talos does not look kindly on those who flout Imperial law.”

Kyndoril took a breath, and held the image of the Fox in his mind. He imagined that Fox had a nasty grin.

“I am not... unfamiliar with the ways of Talos worship. I once learned as all subjects of the Empire must. I once wore the cloth as a disguise. If it would please the God of Man... I would... enter his service right here, from this moment until he sees fit to free me.” He bowed his head as Arentus turned back to him. “I would do this... if you would merely protect me and the woman I brought to the temple.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I am an Altmer. I was once a kinlord of Summerset. Deference to Talos is deference to the Empire. The heresy of devotion, on the other hand, is... apraxic. This is not something I would offer lightly.”

“Do you understand what you're asking for, elf?”

“I don't expect a life of leisure and luxury within these walls.”

“Every day will be devoted to the Divines. You will cut your hair, wear our robes, and serve the whole chapel. You will rarely leave the grounds. Is that something you can live with?”

“I can. But... what would you ask of Sillawe? I should speak with her before accepting terms on her behalf.”

“She may stay with or without you. Talos does not require the service of the frail.”

“Then... if I have your word?” Kyndoril asked, heart pounding. “My service, for the protection of the church?”

Arentus sighed. “Very well. Stay here. Tomorrow, you become one of us.”

–

The consequences of being told to wait in the chapel hall were not immediately obvious. But soon, he heard a voice trying to reassure someone, growing nearer. He looked up. An Imperial woman had coaxed Sillawe from her bench and helped her downstairs. As soon as their eyes met, Sillawe scowled at him.

“I'll explain soon!” Kyndoril promised. “They agreed to help us.”

And explain he did, as soon as they were led to a spare room. She had a bed, and a chest and wardrobe to hold what little she possessed. Literature, all Imperial lore and legend, had been left on the bedside table and a small shelf. _The Song of Pelinal_ stood out.

Kyndoril took a chair as Sillawe sat on the bed and rubbed her elbows.

“You're a guest here now,” he told her. “I only told the primate that you are unwell and need a translator. That is all.”

She eyed him, frowning as he folded his fingers on the table next to him. “And you?”

“I will remain here as well, under the condition that I... join them. As a form of penance.”

“And then you won't be a wanted man anymore?”

Kyndoril shook his head. “The Empire's church does not have the authority that the aldarchs and ascendants do in Summerset, so... my presence here must be a secret, which the primate has agreed to keep.”

“What.”

“In Summerset, the higher clergy have the power to judge crimes and pass sentences, just as the magistrates and lords do. They also offer atonement to those who are penitent.”

“Yeah, I get that. We did it like that too.”

“The Ayleids, you mean?”

Sillawe waved a hand dismissively. “The humans don't? Funny. They liked Akatosh enough as their spear. But enough. You are going to be a secret priest of this Talos, then?”

“Yes. Aedra forgive me.”

“And didn't you say this Talos was Lorkhan?”

“In a manner of speaking. It is said that Lorkhan came to Nirn as a mortal many times after his death. And every time, he has led humans to war with elves. The Empire did not worship him at first. It didn't look good to the elves they ruled.”

“Yes, I know that part.”

“But Talos was different. Just a few hundred years ago, he did what no other emperor had done and conquered all of Tamriel, and Summerset. When he died, he ascended as a new Divine, or so they say.”

“Ah. So he is like Phynaster. If Phynaster was an evil god in disguise.”

“The humans don't quite see it that way. Worship of Lorkhan himself is still... unfashionable in Cyrodiil, for traditional reasons. But... if he will protect us, even for a few weeks, I will sing his praises. Better him than Nocturnal, I... I hope.”

He expected Sillawe to admonish him, but she shrugged. “It is not the first time an elf bowed to the human gods to save their own ass. You feel bad, you take it up with Stendarr later.”

Another Aedra, in the guise of a great animal, drifted into his memories. He turned his thoughts back to the waking mortal world.

“Good advice. I might have to ask you to vouch for me, though.”

“Fine. Then I have a demand, too.”

Kyndoril nodded.

“I should learn this human language.”

“Then I'll try to help. I don't know how long my new duties will keep me, but I will find a way.”

–

There had been many beginnings in Kyndoril's life. He'd received his calian like so many young mer upon coming of age over thirty years ago. He wondered if it was already in pieces, or if it was still locked away for the day he would watch it shatter. He'd taken up the position of High Kinlord, the responsibilities of his mother while she traveled Tamriel and assisted the Mages Guild. It had taken mere decades for him to think himself adventurous and bold, to set himself up for failure. He had taken many opportunities to mend the damage in Cyrodiil. All had been fruitless.

The Divines asked him to shed his past and approach them bare, or so the monks explained as his hair fell to the floor. It was symbolic of a new start. The razor, too, was symbolic. But he decided not to suggest to the monks the irony in their steel blade near his throat.

The ceremonial bath, the cleansing of his sins against the Divines, was not as harrowing. But it was cold. The rough monk's robe was welcome after that.

And finally, there was dedication to the Nine, Talos foremost among them. It amounted to a lengthy morning of prayer interspersed with silence.

When it was over, the Primate of Talos pressed a heavy book into his hands and sent him to study. Kyndoril found a chair by a chapel hall table, opened the scripture, and allowed it to carry his imagination into the Imperial retelling of the Dawn.

–

Sillawe's first reaction upon seeing him was to cover her mouth and quake with barely restrained laughter. Kyndoril felt his cheeks redden.

“I ought to ask for a mirror so I can see this for myself,” he said, running a hand over his bare scalp. “Is it that bad?”

“I'm sorry, but you look like a shaved cat.”

“A cat? Really?”

“We need to get a mirror for you.”

“Well. That's better than what the humans thought I looked like before. Here.”

Kyndoril flipped his bag open and found one of the folded posters. He took another look at the jutting chin and cheekbones before offering to it Sillawe, who smoothed it out and examined it in the candle light. Her face fell.

“This looks like Marukhati slander.”

Oh, right. She was ancient.

“So what does it say?” she asked.

Kyndoril leaned in for a closer look. “'Wanted. Kyndoril. Wanted for grand larceny, assault, and murder. Male and Altmer. Seven feet tall.' Okay, look, I'm a little tall but this is a few inches too many. 'Light weight. Blond hair and yellow eyes. Armed and dangerous. Do not approach. Any citizen with information should contact the Imperial Watch.'”

“That is depressing. Is there something else to read?”

Kyndoril looked over his shoulder at the selection of books. _The Song of Pelinal_ stared back. That would not do. He brushed _that_ one aside and kept searching, until his eyes fell on something a little more suitable for an elven reader.

“ _A Children's Anuad_ ,” he said, offering the thin book to Sillawe.

–

As the days in Bruma wore on to weeks, Sillawe began to devour books, moving from children's tales of the Dawn to accountings of the Alessian Uprising.

“Alessia was not so terrible,” Sillawe told him one day, as he returned from his chores. “She wished for freedom and took it, and then she wished that no human or mer or betmer suffered as she did. A just woman.”

“You witnessed all of that?” Kyndoril asked.

Sillawe shrugged in her bed and rearranged her blankets. “How could I not? But you... remind me of something.”

He waited for her to continue, but she sighed.

“What I tell you now, you must keep secret. Do you swear it?”

Kyndoril nodded, then knelt at her bedside. “Yes. On my father's grave. And believe me, he would not forgive me if I broke an oath by him.”

Sillawe bit her lip. And Kyndoril wondered if the ancestors would grant him the power to ease her fears. He gathered magicka to his hands, envisioned a shell made of the same force that silenced feet and hooves, and let it sweep over the walls and door.

“There. Your words will be safe and secret, or may my father chastise me now.”

No voice howled at them from Aetherius. And Sillawe was satisfied.

“You remind me of mer I once knew. You serve this Talos with the same reluctance that my own father served Alduin.”

Kyndoril looked at her again, as her words sank into his mind. Green eyes told him little. Her deep brown complexion was certainly not rare in southern Summerset, but texts and portraits of the Tamrielic Ayleids and Chimer favored paler golds. Her hair was a rare brilliant white, one that would have turned heads anywhere but Morrowind. But she mentioned a god of the north, and acted as though cold could not touch her.

“You're Falmeri?” Kyndoril whispered, forgetting the muffling charm. “I should have guessed when you refused my cloak, but....”

Sillawe reached for a cord at her neck and tugged something from under her blouse – a circular white amulet with a familiar sun engraved into the surface.

“My father, too, was a Falmer,” she went on, staring at the little sun. “Before my time, the Atmorans came to our cities. They brought their Shor with them and forced the Falmer bow to him and the rest of their gods. So my father served Alduin. But... I do not remember him having a shaved head.”

That was a little unfair. His own gold had started to grow back in.

“And... may I ask...?”

“Mother was an Atmoran. She was not important, only a serving girl to a shield maiden. But then the dragons blessed her and she lived in Bromjunaar like my father. And one day, Mara had ideas for them, and here I am.”

“And... you came to Rielle?”

Sillawe tucked the amulet away again. “The Atmorans started a war against the dragons. Mother told us all to flee. Father and I went south. Father... was taken underground by the Dwemer to pay for my passage. The Dwemer took so many people. But yes. I came to Rielle.”

Kyndoril regretted his question. “I'm sorry.”

She went on, her voice tired. Flat. “And now, after Alessia's life and death, after the Alessian Order stole her name and tried to kill us all, an Altmer brings me to their temple and hands me their books about the gods while he worships the newest Lorkhan. The irony. It smells like incense and goats.”

“If this place has anything else, I will try to show you,” Kyndoril promised. “But if you could tell me more, I have grown weary of Talos and Padomay. Do you know other stories of the Dawn? Or should I tell you what we Altmer remember?”

Sillawe's face softened a bit. “Well... my father told me that the north was cold and dark before the Aedra were finished with it. The elves who lived there froze their asses off until Auri-El gave them warmth to withstand it, and Y'ffre put the Aetherial lights in the sky to brighten it up. The rest is the same, I think. Auri-El and Trinimac killed Lorkhan. So many elves and humans left, but the Falmer stayed behind to enjoy the peace and Y'ffre's lights.”

Kyndoril, of course, had been envisioning stars, but he suspected she meant something else. “These Aetherial lights. Not the stars?”

“No, no! The lights! You know...?”

“I don't follow.”

As luck had it, after the passage of several months, the lights that Sillawe spoke of would come to Bruma – a rare spectacle of green that lit the sky on one unexpected night. While he marveled, she laughed and told him that she had seen it so many times from the mountains of Skyrim.

Though he languished under Talos, she grew stronger until she could walk without fatigue and move about the temple as she pleased, seeking conversation and books as she wished. Meanwhile, she continued to teach him of the Falmeri gods. With her help, his faith in the Aedra survived.

And in time, they began to feel the suggestions of Mara.

 


	4. Rise of the Winter King

Though Kyndoril mourned the loss of his home in the Summerset Isles, the pain eased with each passing month. The one dread that he could not overcome was the guilt he felt for abandoning his poor sister. It was all he could do to pray to the ancestors for forgiveness and hope that Cyrodwen's rule was peaceful and prosperous.

The death of High Chancellor Ocato, however, ended that hope. Ocato, Aedra rest his soul, had ruled in the stead of an emperor for ten years – the last connection to a Summerset that to his knowledge still resented the Empire, and the last shield against Colovian aggression. With his murder, the Elder Council began to grapple for power, and the lords of Cyrodiil vied for the Ruby Throne.

Worse still, rumors of Summerset began to spread north. The isles had been taken by civil war as well. Many kinlords and kinladies were swiftly overthrown, their lands annexed by other houses, while the Thalmor led pogroms to purge the islands of human influence. There was no news of Alinor; none dared to guess the will or fate of High King Coreriil.

The Elder Council denied the rumors. But Kyndoril remembered Silabaene's words and schemes and his fear deepened.

Despite the elves and rumors flying north, the requests for asylum, Bruma grew distrustful of all elvenkind. A day came when the elderly Primate of Talos approached them and asked them to gather their few possessions.

“Arentus, we have only served the Divines,” Kyndoril pleaded, while Sillawe grimaced and stowed their things in the sacks they'd been afforded.

“And you've served well. But I won't risk an enemy of the Thalmor in my temple with the count breathing down my neck.”

Friend or foe, no relation to the Thalmor was good in Cyrodiil, and Kyndoril knew better than to argue further on the matter.

“Will you want this habit back, or does the stench of elf offend?”

“Keep the robe and keep your ears covered,” Arentus said. “Stendarr go with you.”

Stendarr. Now there was a Divine more worthy of prayers and praises! His compassion for mortals did not end with Men. At least not in elven scriptures.

They fled for their lives toward the western highlands of Cyrodiil, on the back of a dun that Kyndoril had borrowed in secret from the stables of Bruma.

“Let us hope Stendarr is watching and not Stuhn,” Sillawe griped. “Stuhn can be a dick.”

“I thought he was a Bear.”

Sillawe laughed at this. “Ha! What would you know of that?”

Kyndoril tried not to think of the Bear that had once haunted his sleep, yet brought him comfort. “I've studied Nord religion.”

“Strange. That Mikhael Karkuxor who wrote of the Nords. He always mixed Stuhn up with his brother the Whale. What did you even read?”

“Well, to be truthful, the Bear was from a bad dream that also involved a Dragon and a Fox sometimes, if you can believe it.”

“Ah. Yes. The gods. They're fucking with you. They do that sometimes.”

With luck, their journey did not end with being overtaken by warring bands of Colovians. They arrived in Chorrol, where the humans did not eye them with the suspicion of the Nords of Bruma. And they took refuge under the roof of the very Stendarr who had heard their snark and prayers on the road. Kyndoril served the Apologist of Man as he had once served Talos, while he prayed that none of the nearby Weynon Priory noticed him.

–

Soon enough, Thules the Gibbering claimed the Ruby Throne. But he was not well liked outside of the Elder Council, and it did not come as a shock when, as was typical for Cyrodiil, a Colovian warlord captured the city and took his place. It seemed normalcy had returned. But it did not last. In the twenty-second year of the era, word arrived that Summerset had broken its last frail ties with the Empire, and the isles were once again named Alinor.

Cyrodiil, at the time, still felt the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis and its succession wars, and so Emperor Titus Mede did not intervene. Black Marsh and Elsweyr had seceded years ago, and the Red Year and Argonian invasions of Morrowind led the Empire to deem it a lost cause. There was little point in forcing Alinor to stay, let alone throw what remained of the Empire's navy into a hopeless battle at sea. The Thalmor were not opposed.

A thought that had not crossed his mind in years came to him. For days, he wrestled it himself. When that did nothing but further his anxiety, he decided to confide instead.

He found Sillawe sitting in bed, lost in a volume of _2920_. She glanced up at him, then snapped the book shut.

“Finally. This was getting depressing. Come, sit! Stay for a while.”

“The Remans were a bit cheerless, weren't they,” said Kyndoril, sitting at the foot of the bed. “So... you have some time?”

“Some time?” Sillawe put the book aside, then smiled. “I have all night, Kyndoril.”

“You... you do?” He felt a blush set in as she leaned across to lower his hood.

“For you, yes. But, you sound like something is on your mind.”

“Well, now hardly seems like a good time to mention it.”

“Oh, just say it. Better to deal with it sooner than keep it in your head all night.”

“Well... it concerns Summerset,” Kyndoril whispered. “Or Alinor. As it is now. Maybe I should go back. It has been two decades. I could return to Alinor, before Alinor finds me here.”

“And how would you do that?” Sillawe asked. “You said no boats are sailing.”

“I... did say that, didn't I. No point in worrying about it, then. Not tonight.”

But he had barely shed his robes when another thought occurred.

“Perhaps a trade vessel, if any still sail,” he said. “Of course, the Thalmor would see that.... And... if they actually did.... Then....”

He stifled a groan that had nothing to do with fear. And Sillawe chuckled next to him.

“Oh, to Oblivion with it,” he muttered. “Alinor can wait.”

–

It was safer to bide his time, much as he loathed it. But in Sillawe's presence, the wait was tolerable. They enjoyed each other's company, their chatter, their moments away from the eyes of the church. It was not long before their minds were made up.

In the twenty-fifth year of the era, they married in the Great Chapel of Stendarr. Kyndoril's days as a priest came to a close; the Imperial Divines preferred celibate hands after all. But he and Sillawe took work in Chorrol where they could find it, and eventually settled into a small home.

It was easier than Kyndoril had expected. Though he kept a watchful eye out for any sign the Empire sought him, he no longer saw evidence that they cared. His image was not nailed to any wooden board or post. The guards did not spare him more than a glance.

It occurred to him that Cyrodiil was a very human place, where time flew swiftly and things that would linger in a typical Aldmeri memory were forgotten in generations that, to his elven mind, passed fleeting as a mere handful of seasons.

Honest work, therefore, was easy to request. It was not as easy to find, and Kyndoril, frustrated as he was, ignored the faint hum of Nocturnal's cowl.

Nocturnal, for her part, harassed him with birds.

“It's not even Hearthfire!” Kyndoril whispered, as pitch-black ravens cawed at him from the trees by a tailor's shop. “Shoo!”

“How rude! The elf mocks us! Treats us like common pests!”

“He does look like a scarecrow!” said a second raven. “Maybe he's full of straw!”

Kyndoril scowled. “I'm made of normal elf things.”

“Like meat! Tasty meat! And tender eyes!”

His imagination was vivid, and in this case that was a curse. His blood chilled. “No. Not tasty. I taste bad. But, you've got my attention! What does the Prince of Shadows need of me?”

“Ignorance! As if he has not been told!”

Kyndoril shoved a hand into his purse and offered a pair of coins again. “Here. Shinies. Are you pleased?”

The crows took his gold and flew, and Kyndoril hurried in the other direction, wondering what he possibly could have done to draw Nocturnal's eye again. It had been years since the last horse theft!

His mind went to the cowl, sitting buried in his things, hidden from all others. The Nocturnal in his memories had told him to keep it and mentioned something cryptic involving destiny. Perhaps its disuse insulted her.

Precious as the cowl was, he did not enjoy the idea of remaining its holder if being stalked by daedric spirits was the price for it. But how to dispose of it, without simply dropping it in a rubbish heap or tossing it at another thief? The church would not do – they'd be too affronted by the heresy that came with owning it. But there was another group that concerned itself with the magical, that might overlook such things....

Head filled with memories of mages, of an Argonian mystic who had once opened a portal to Kvatch, he set off down the street. He had barely reached the end when old news sprang back to the front of his mind. There had simply not been a Mages Guild in Cyrodiil for years. Fear of the arcane, seeded in the Empire's history, had returned as a perennial weed in the wake of the Oblivion Crisis.

The guild hall remained, but it was locked to all while the city of Chorrol decided its fate. The blue of the sign had faded over the years; the sigil of the eye was barely visible.

Curiosity prickled in his mind, and the lock grew tempting. One spell, a bit of discretion, and nobody would notice if he slipped into the building. And if he were caught, well....

He imagined Sillawe alone. The fear and grief he would cause. Whatever still sat in there was not worth the risk.

–

In a day, his mind had changed. Sillawe was not the fretting helpless maiden that the church had imagined. They'd already risked much together, and she would understand one foray into an old, locked up building with a history to him. Even if it did have a chance to put him into a temporary, embarrassing situation with guards who no longer knew his face. And just to be safe, he carried the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal, in a place of forbidden darkness. The darkness where nobody had business looking without his explicit permission, of course.

One quick spell to reveal prying eyes. Chorrol had few residents who were Altmeri or otherwise deeply attuned to subtle magic, and the ripple went unnoticed. He stepped beneath the first arch and into the shade of the doorway. A lesser spell to unlock the door. The familiar give and resistance of the barrel and pins should not have been so satisfying. A charm over his eyes as he stepped in and closed the door behind him, and all was clear.

The stench hit him first, sour and reeking of ammonia. The marks gnawed into the posts too suggested rats. Then there were cobwebs, dust carpeting the floor, and the sense that something magical lingered in the rooms. Kyndoril hoped he had not stepped into another tomb and pressed on.

Either the guild had taken its valuables before dispersing, or someone had looted the place. Soul gems and Aetherial shards, alchemical tools made of precious metals and glasses had vanished, leaving empty cases, rusted steel instruments, and rows of forgotten books on the shelves. Some carelessly stacked tomes had been knocked to the floor and their pages stained and ripped from them.

The living quarters above the library seemed no different. Something on the floor caught his eye; a gleaming hourglass. It had fallen and shattered. Some grit still remained under the little dragon scales emblazoned on the gold. More coincidence than omen, Kyndoril told himself.

By chance, he glanced into one of the rooms, and caught a flash of magicka. He threw himself behind a corner and waited, but nothing happened. He checked again and found nothing but a narrow, moth-eaten bed. Then he turned. Something rested on a moldering bookshelf. Something that had not suffered the dust or rot of the guild hall.

He took the unassuming wooden box in his hands, felt mythril hinges, and read the inscription burned into the lid.

_To the Missing Child_

The lid was loose, yet the box was heavy with paper and leather, leaves bearing a familiar shimmering ink that had not felt the touch of time, penned in a hand that he knew.

_Kyndoril,_

_If this finds you before I do, it is likely you now understand the burden of Luxurene, and the folly of Alinor as I once witnessed...._

He stopped reading and closed the box again before tears could ruin what magic had preserved.

–

The contents of the box were both fascinating and mortifying. Kyndoril returned to his hovel to sift through Estivel's words.

Letters to Teekeeus mentioned one Morgiah. He knew of a Morgiah, daughter of Queen Barenziah. She had married into the Rilis house and become Kinlady of Firsthold. News of her engagement and marriage to Karoodil had come to Luxurene early in his brief rule. News of a failed revolt against Firsthold's Dunmeri kinlady soon followed. Morgiah and Karoodil had two children before, for reasons known only to House Rilis, they disappeared from public eye and Silabaene took their place as High Kinlord of Firsthold.

Estivel's notes and journals implied something more terrible.

Just before Firsthold's change of power, Morgiah's children had vanished. Kyndoril found another page. She had confessed to Estivel a pact with Mannimarco himself: her firstborn for the hand of Karoodil, and yet the distressed Morgiah swore she had not kept her bargain.

Kyndoril raked through his own memories. If Morgiah had been suspected of trafficking with Mannimarco or his once-lord Molag Bal, the Divine Prosecution would have descended upon Firsthold and the inquiries would have spread far, to Skywatch, to King's Haven, even to his own little court. The justiciars and jurisreeves were nothing if not thorough.

But there had been no such proceedings. Morgiah had fled Summerset altogether, fearing Silabaene and the Void. Estivel's notes chronicled a series of misadventures, beginning in the year that she had vanished to Tamriel for 'guild duties'.

Morgiah's flight ended in the Shivering Isles. They needed a new Sheogorath; the old one had returned to his post as the Daedric Prince of Order. Estivel had not been pleased. While this kept Morgiah out of Silabaene's reach, what on Nirn was she supposed to tell Barenziah and Morgiah's brother, King Helseth?

The rest was more recent and directly relevant to his plight. Estivel had known that Silabaene would come to Tamriel. The Mages Guild was warned not to heed him.

Estivel had learned from the not-so-subtle cultists of Cyrodiil that the King of Worms had risen again. She had crushed that threat once more, in some cavernous lair west of Bruma.

Estivel had received Kyndoril's messages, his fretting letters, his pleas for help. The box contained an apologetic letter citing Silabaene's treachery as the reason she had kept her distance. Alone, Kyndoril's continued life was worth something to the High Kinlord of Firsthold. Whatever pain that brought, it meant survival for them both and the island.

That brought him back to his mother's last letter to him. For all its progress, for all the First and Second Aldmeri Dominion had accomplished through alliances and opened ports, there were those in the heights of Alinoran society bent on preserving the isles as proof of their connection to the Aedra, their status as gods among mortals.

Summerset had regressed so many times before. Estivel had seen such things and devoted hundreds of years of life to preventing that, if only in her own lands. But she could not last forever. She and Vanus had raised him and his sister to keep an open mind and heart, that their little island might remain a sanctuary in times of crisis.

Kyndoril thought of Cyrodwen again and hoped, desperately, that she endured.

 


	5. The Moonless Journey

Cyrodiil continued in its own collapse. Within a few years, the Aldmeri Dominion reformed; Valenwood had deposed its Imperial governors, while their treethanes and kings swore fealty to High King Angalion of Alinor. Multitudes of Bosmer began to arrive in Cyrodiil seeking refuge, and they had it.

This, followed in a few years by a fleeting crisis in the Mede dynasty, absurd tales of an Oblivion tree, and wild rumors of the Dominion's hand in all of it sent the Empire spiraling into paranoia and Marukhati fanaticism. While the lords of Cyrodiil did not lend their guards or armies to the chaos, they refused to condemn the racism of their peers, their subjects, and the church.

In time, a mer was found beaten to death on one of Chorrol's peaceful streets. The killers had left a threatening note and a symbol of Shezarr near the body.

The Count of Chorrol warned elves to remain inside, among their own, and not linger in the streets. “For your own protection,” said the count. And he did no more.

Kyndoril and Sillawe were horrified. But as the violence continued, unthinkable news came again, this time from Hammerfell. The Thalmor had struck Sentinel, targeting Altmeri refugees who had sought asylum across the sea. An entire section of the city had burned in magefire.

This seemed an act of war. But the Imperial Legion could not respond. Its own armies had been decimated in the incident of the ludicrous tree a mere two years prior.

He and Sillawe considered fleeing south. Each month, it seemed Chorrol had only more hostility to offer to mer, while the Dominion sent a clear message. Nowhere in Tamriel would be safe from them. Kyndoril did not like to imagine the Thalmor arriving in the Colovian west.

But Sillawe did not let him steep in fear.

“Just go back,” she suggested one evening as they retired to bed. “You are still the king of your own little island. Show them you are not a scared little man. Use subtlety to lead your people as your mother wished.”

“I'm as good as an ouster by now,” said Kyndoril. “Even if the isles don't know the rest... and I'm surprised they have not tracked me here yet... I doubt I'd be welcome in Luxurene, or on the throne.”

Sillawe was persistent. That was among her strongest qualities. “You've faced trials worthy of Tsun, Kyn. Your family of all mer should be able to forgive that.”

“I've failed them as a kinlord. How could I trust myself now when I fled once before?”

“Ah. So then what do you think is best now?”

Kyndoril gave her an honest answer. “I could live the rest of my life like this. But... perhaps not in Cyrodiil. I cannot promise Luxurene, but if your mind is sent on Alinor, then... that is where we'll have to go.”

–

It would be decades still before they ventured forth from Chorrol. That time would been given to waiting, planning, listening for a moment when all seemed safe enough and there was no more point in lingering.

In time, there were no more rumors of Dominion cruelty. It seemed that the chaos that had gripped Alinor had come to an end, and there would never be a better time to make the journey. During one spring, Kyndoril and Sillawe sold the house to another pair of interested mer, packed what they could, and departed on the Black Road.

The turning of the century closed in. Kyndoril had been in Cyrodiil nearly one-hundred years, and never before had he felt such advantage. A quarter of that time had allowed him to fade from common memory, but a century had erased his part in the Oblivion Crisis and its aftermath. As far as all were concerned, Martin alone was Tamriel's savior. No elven criminals existed to taint his history. The anonymity was better than any cloak or cowl or false identity. He dared guess that his ring had lost its meaning, that any who remembered him at all assumed him dead or vanished to some other land.

But he could not forget as Cyrodiil did. His worst moments came weeks after they'd set out, as they approached Skingrad. Kyndoril imagined Silabaene's presence. The grip on his collar. The treachery in Skingrad's dungeons, and the complete absence of pity. He nearly did not sleep when they finally found an inn, and after that, Sillawe insisted on waiting another day to make sure he had rested before they left again.

Once she was satisfied that he would not collapse in a morning's walk, they departed from Skingrad, and then from the main roads. They made their way south and east, to the source of the Strid River, the border between Cyrodiil and Valenwood. The plains gave way to crags and hills.

In time, the last thing standing between them and southern Tamriel was Fort Sphinxmoth. He and Sillawe waited patiently for nightfall, then stole through the trees to avoid the sight of the walls. And they did not stop walking until the border of Cyrodiil was long behind them.

They continued south, heading deeper into Elsweyr. It was not their intended destination, but the mountains between them and Valenwood were not a challenge they were willing to face on foot. Days later, they stumbled upon the city of Dune.

–

The experience of visiting Elsweyr was both exaggerated and understated, in Imperial and Alinoran tales alike. A hostel of course was neither a den of silk and pillows and attendants waiting to fulfill lurid fantasies, nor was it a lair of thieves waiting to bludgeon newcomers and take their money for skooma. It was a simple fact that Khajiiti culture emphasized hospitality to the unfortunate and the road-weary, and spared no effort in making an inn feel like a home.

Though Elsweyr had long been independent of the Empire, the Grinning Moons Inn accepted their septims, gave them a room with a plush bed, and invited them to feast and drink throughout the day.

Kyndoril discovered a mild tolerance for moon sugar, which was rumored to make all but Khajiit drowsy even in typical cooking. Sillawe, on the other hand, could barely keep her eyes open. Whether from exhaustion of the road or the famed sedative properties of the sugar, she slept heavily through the night and well into the next morning, while he lounged and gazed at painted guardian senche carvings and the clouds rolling over the plains.

Once the sugar had worn off and they'd replenished their supplies, they trekked further south, around the mountains, and then north and west until they came to the last city on the border of Elsweyr and Valenwood: Rawl'kha.

An astute guard who spotted their arrival approached them. Kyndoril stiffened, but the leopard-like Cathay-raht regarded them with concern from behind his maned helm.

“This is Rawl'kha, walkers. It is Elsweyr, but across the western river is the Aldmeri Dominion. If you go there, we cannot follow.”

“Do many people come this way to Valenwood?” Sillawe asked.

“Yes. And not all mean to stay,” said the guard. “But the Dominion does not like visitors. To go is to take your life into your own hands. You are warned.”

And nothing more was said. Kyndoril wondered how many had been given such a warning, and how many had heeded it. When he and Sillawe reached the Waxing Crescent inn, uncertainty weighed on their minds. Kyndoril poured a cup of wine for Sillawe, while she voiced her thoughts.

“There was as much safety in staying in Cyrodiil,” she said. “Elves are not so welcome there now. Tell me. Do you think the Dominion will be so....”

Kyndoril set the bottle down. “Well, many of Alinor prefer isolation and hold disdain for... those they call ephem... those who are not Altmer. You easily pass for an Altmer, or at least you have in Tamriel. The Bosmer of Valenwood have always been more welcoming than Summerset, and we should not have trouble there as long as we respect the Green and the laws of the Dominion. I expect Alinor to be far less lenient, and still worse if my identity is uncovered.”

“Then we give them no reason to notice us.”

“If you're sure. I won't force you into such a risk.”

“I risked Skyrim and Cyrodiil, once. And I am not a child this time. If anyone has reason to worry... perhaps it is you. So what will you do?”

“I will not abandon my wife, my friend to go forward alone.”

“There is honor in that. And there is no dishonor in living quietly once we get there.”

–

Though the Dominion and Elsweyr were at peace, Kyndoril imagined that those who saw them cross the bridge the next day considered them fools. Soon, the air had cooled and they were all but swallowed by graht-oaks. The silence of the grasslands ended, replaced by endless birdsong and gentle wind rustling the canopy high above.

But the beauty of the forest was tinged by a new dread. Both he and Sillawe knew that the Green of Valenwood was unlike any wilderness in Tamriel. The trees and plants knew their movements, the beasts had uncanny intelligence, and ehlnofey such as spriggans would be fiercer than their cousins. So, they prayed to Y'ffre for safe passage.

Night came. They prepared to make camp on the road and debated the safety of building a fire with dead wood. But before they could decide, an oppressive darkness fell and even the insects went silent. Only the faint glow of Valenwood's luminescent flowers remained.

It was as if thick clouds had settled between them and the moons. Kyndoril cast a spell of light and they agreed on that campfire, this time with the rationalization that they personally were not beholden to the Green Pact, that they wouldn't be harming any living plants, and that they had a dire need the Green would have to understand.

The Green did not fall upon them in the night. Kyndoril woke, relieved to see sunlight through his eyelids. Then he heard the footsteps and opened his eyes. The point of an elven moonstone blade had come much too close to his face.

His next course of action was clear. He raised his hands in surrender where he had curled up to sleep.

“By Stendarr.... What's going on?”

“No sudden movements.”

He turned his head, as far as he dared, and saw Sillawe awake and sitting next to a Bosmer, who watched in plain contempt as she worked on a ration of bread. The mer's armor was dark. The silver image of an eagle had been stitched into the leather cuirass. And the one looming over him wore the same.

“Are you Dominion scouts, then?” Kyndoril asked. “Or Thalmor?”

“Oh, we're not Thalmor.”

Kyndoril let out a held breath.

“But he is.” The Bosmer gestured down the road, where a tall mer in a black robe viewed the show from horseback. “You've got a lot of nerve, Imperial.”

“Imperial? I am an Altmer!”

“Doesn't make any difference. You're from Cyrodiil, you're Imperial Altmer. Now what are you doing here?”

Kyndoril's mind scrambled for words. Sillawe was quicker. “We are _leaving_ Cyrodiil. We've had enough of the humans, and my husband tells me that the Dominion used to take in refugees.”

“Times change.”

The sound of hooves on the dirt was a warning. They were running out of time. Kyndoril looked from the Bosmer, to the Thalmor justiciar, whose hooded face turned to observe them as he reined his horse to a halt.

“Then we're sorry for trespassing. If you let us go, we'll turn around and go back to Rawl'kha?”

Thalmor justiciar hoods served two purposes. First, they created a stronger image of authority. Second, they concealed the ears, making it harder for even a mer to tell what the justiciar might be thinking, adding to their unnerving demeanor. Kyndoril could not read the face of the officer from where he lay on the forest floor.

But the order was clear as glass.

“Arrest them.”

–

For decades to come, Kyndoril would think back to Fort Grimwatch and wonder how in Oblivion he had outwitted the justiciars who interrogated them. He had told them that his name was Falion – common enough for mer. They examined his golden ring and he somehow convinced them that the floral crest was a symbol of Mara. The silver ring was a trinket. The Gray Cowl of Nocturnal was hidden well. The damning box from the Mages Guild had sealed itself to them and would neither open nor make a sound. It was a keepsake that he knew was precious, Kyndoril lied, praying silently that they did not take a saw to it. He had no idea what it meant, and he hoped to find one who could explain it one day.

When the Thalmor finally asked why he entered Dominion lands, he pleaded that he was seeking long-lost family. He knew he had relatives somewhere in Alinor, he told them. He could not bear the thought of being separated from his kin forever. The Empire was not worth his connections to Aldmeris.

Somehow, this convinced them. Once Kyndoril and Sillawe had renounced the Empire and Talos, they were allowed to go free. They did not dare breathe a word of their relief or indignation until they were well on the road away from that place.

Sillawe, for her part, swore loudly in the northern tongue of ancient men.

“What does that mean?”

“It means they have their heads up their assholes.”

“Lorkhan take them,” Kyndoril agreed. “But here we are! Safe! In Valenwood! We'll be in Alinor before you can say 'golden pear ale'!”

“'Golden pear ale'?”

“Sillawe, I can't open portals. You'll need to be more patient than that.”

She finally laughed again, and the sight nearly brought him to tears of relief. She shook her head. “You silly, flimsy man.... Tell me, what else does your Alinor have?”

For the rest of the day's walk, he entertained her with descriptions of Summerset food from his distant memories – rice and fish, citrus and cheese, sausages stuffed with pork and chicken and fruit. And in turn, she treated him to a long explanation of the importance of the humble sheep in ancient Atmoran life, for all the wool and milk and mutton they provided.

They spoke of food and drink until they realized how hungry they were, and nearly depleted what was left of their provisions before they stepped through the gates of an old Baandari trading post.

The walls were Imperial, left over from the Reman age. The city itself remained Khajiiti, despite the Dominion's presence. There, the similarities with Elsweyr ended. The innkeeper refused to sell them anything for septims; the Thalmor forbade it. But he was not an unreasonable man, and offered to let them work for their food and bed.

“Just tell this one what you can do,” he said. “He will find something for you.”

“Oh, I can scrub dishes, wash tables, shake my backside,” said Kyndoril. “You name it.”

The innkeeper raised a furred eyebrow. “Good enough. You eat, you rest a bit, then you come see me. What about you, miss?”

“I'll make sure my husband behaves himself in front of the men,” Sillawe said from behind her mug. “Tell me if you need anything else.”

That satisfied the innkeeper, who let the goat and bread settle in their stomachs before sending them to deal with the rest of the patrons, and allowed them to keep whatever extra money they were given. They made a few pieces of silver that night.

The skies were clear over the town, but something was still amiss when Kyndoril stepped out to admire the night. It was too dark, and a malevolence hung in the air. Its presence was familiar, reminiscent of a nightmare of a Fox.

–

Slowly, they made their west through Valenwood. They stuck to the roads and hurried to reach civilization before night fell. The moons had vanished. Simply disappeared. Kyndoril might have had his magic, and the Thalmor patrols might have been regular, but the wilderness of Valenwood was too much for an ordinary mer to reckon with under normal circumstances.

As they raced the sun day after day through the wooded highlands of Malabal Tor, they found sanctuary in the great tree city of Silvenar, the hilly seaside Vulkwasten, and a number of villages. They asked for small jobs where they could, and by the time they arrived in the Altmeri port city of Velyn, they had just enough money for cheap clothing stitched in Alinoran fashion. From then on, they stood out much less, and even Thalmor eye did not linger on them when they passed.

Velyn might have been Altmeri, but the docks would not grant them passage to Alinor. Not as newcomers. For that, they needed to travel further south, and seek permission from the Thalmor in Woodhearth.

They spent more weeks on the road, and summer reached its peak as they crossed the forests and marshes of Greenshade. At last, when it seemed they could walk no more, they spotted a mix of Bosmeri tree homes and Altmeri stone buildings by the sea.

That is where Kyndoril's plan shattered. For the Thalmor, in the headquarters in Woodhearth, were far more suspicious and competent than the guards of Grimwatch.

 


	6. The Magistrate of Woodhearth

Of course the Thalmor of Woodhearth were wiser. Valenwood was one place, one territory that owed Alinor allegiance. It was guarded as such. But the waters of the Cape of the Blue Divide were a sacred border.

These Thalmor knew, somehow, that Kyndoril was not the mer he claimed to be. As Sillawe protested, demanded to speak to their superiors, he was shackled and pulled away, down another hall, and left in a cold cell to wait for his hearing.

At least the Thalmor were quick. In mere hours, glass-armored guards arrived and led him back out, up the stairs to a magistrate's office and rapped on the door.

“Your afternoon is here, sir.”

“Good. Bring him in. I will send for you when I am done.”

Kyndoril felt a hand shove him forward, heard the door snap shut behind him. His courage began to wane. He resigned himself to stand before the magistrate's desk, and asked the one question that was loudest in his mind.

“Where have you taken my wife?”

The magistrate met his eyes. “She is safe and comfortable, and not of interest to the Thalmor. I believe she awaits your release. So, let's not keep her waiting any longer than we need to.”

The magistrate must have been in the prime of his life. But something about his demeanor and face gave Kyndoril the distinct impression that he'd been at his post for an age. A rough silver beard had even started to grow across his jaw.

“You stand before Ondolemar of Dusk,” said the magistrate. “By the grace of the Thalmor, I serve Woodhearth as an officer of the justiciars and as a magistrate. So, I am your judge.”

That did not sound promising.

“Now. Explain yourself.”

“I am Falion of Chorrol,” said Kyndoril. “I'm looking for my family in Alinor.”

“Lies will not serve you here. Your name is not Falion and you were not born anywhere near Cyrodiil.”

Kyndoril froze. Had the time come, then? Had everything been unavoidable?

“Corrupted as it is,” said Ondolemar, “your voice proves your birth in northern Alinor, and you carry yourself as if you expect something from me. I wonder what that is... and what you will tell me before we're through.”

Kyndoril felt his face redden in shame. And he extended his hands to let Ondolemar see his ring. The magistrate's eyes lingered on the crest.

“My mother had this engraved for me long ago,” Kyndoril admitted. “It was fashioned from the gold of your mountain city.”

“The son of High Kinlady Estivel, then.”

“So Alinor remembers me after all these years? Should I have stayed away?”

“Is that a confession?”

Kyndoril shut his mouth.

“You were presumed dead,” Ondolemar hissed, as Kyndoril withdrew his hands. “High Kinlady Cyrodwen has governed that precious little island of yours for decades.”

“Then all is well at home?”

“Given the situation, I would assume the Deadlands did not open upon _your_ town and leave it in ruins. So let us concern ourselves with your fate.”

“M...My fate? I thought you were returning me to my poor wife!”

Ondolemar stood, and though Kyndoril knew himself to be tall even among Altmer, the dark leather and silk of the magistrate's robes made an imposing frame. “You abandoned your house. Consorted with our enemies in Cyrodiil.”

“They were not the enemy when–”

“Humiliated the people of Aldmeris through your little crime spree. Inflicted considerable insult upon High Kinlord Silabaene.”

Kyndoril could not speak. He longed for Time to undo itself, and a way to warn his past self to stay far from Woodhearth.

“Ignored your duty to the Crystal Tower when the gates of Oblivion opened. And – don't think the Thalmor were blind to your escapades – collaborated with the heir of Tiber Septim!”

“I had no choice!” Kyndoril protested. “I was trapped in Cyrodiil! And if Martin hadn't–”

“And when the Great Anguish ended? You were offered every chance to return and chose murder and exile.”

“I am not a murderer!” The shackles grew heavy on his wrists. As magicka welled from anger, the metal sapped it and left him robbed of strength. Merely standing was a task. “I'm.... By the gods.... Is this cold-iron...? Argh!”

“You thought to crawl back when the Aldmeri Dominion rose from the ashes at last.”

“In all this time... for all this accursed century... I have only longed to return to my home. By Stendarr, if you would–”

“Stendarr has no mercy for traitors. Give me one reason I shouldn't see you hanged this sundown.”

Kyndoril stood there, terrified, and tried to think of anything that would save him. “Is that in your power, then?”

“If you were a kinlord, no. But all I see before me is an ouster. An _apraxic_ ouster with the sin of treason over his head.”

“I... have been among the Cyrods far too long. Forgive me for noticing that you sound like a Cyrod judge, if Stendarr is a god of righteous wrath.”

Ondolemar scowled. And Kyndoril feared that the morning's sunrise had been his last.

“Was it not Stendarr who urged the Aedra to spare the defeated armies of Lorkhan?”

“A mistake for which he must atone, as you must bear the penalty for your crimes.”

“Then would Stendarr not have pity on even the lowest of Altmer?”

Ondolemar rolled his eyes. Kyndoril gave up. He directed his gaze to the floor, and his prayers to the heavens.

“They usually try to invoke Mara next,” Ondolemar finally said, sinking back into his chair. “Fine. I will hear whatever excuse you have to give. And perhaps I'll find lodging for you in the dungeons tonight.”

Kyndoril's knees finally gave out. From the rug, he heard Ondolemar move a sheet of paper across his desk.

“You say you were forced to remain in Cyrodiil. Begin there, if you would.”

–

Kyndoril told Ondolemar his story, leaving out the parts with the talking animal gods and the truth of Sillawe's past.

The topic of Silabaene was one that had to be addressed with care; accusing a kinlord of murder and any part in a daedric conspiracy was not wise. But a feud between two houses, involving imprisonment and torn loyalties, was not beyond the scope of Altmeri politics. As he tried to explain his final flight from Silabaene, Ondolemar stopped him.

There was one undeniable truth in the end of their conflict, Ondolemar told him. Silabaene had indeed acted upon the will of the Thalmor. But Kyndoril, in his lack of contact with mer other than Silabaene, had remained loyal to both Alinor and the Empire, which had been his duty. Any guilt of high treason, then, was in question.

As he expected, Ondolemar found him insufferable. But the magistrate refused to pass further judgment. He apologized to Sillawe in person and informed her that he would wait, under guard, until he received further instructions from Alinor.

Ondolemar was merciful as far as officers of the Thalmor went. Too soft on dissenters and heretics for his superiors' tastes, but good at his work otherwise. Mer who would have been led to the gallows were commonly sentenced to years of servitude instead. The Thalmor who reaped the benefits of their labors tolerated this. But Ondolemar's interest in Kyndoril and his case was the final straw.

In time, High Kinlady Cyrodwen agreed to reconsider her judgment. The Thalmor permitted passage to the isles. And on the morning of the voyage, Kyndoril and Sillawe watched as Ondolemar strode up the gangplank of the ship to meet them.

“Don't you have kittens to scare?” Sillawe asked.

Ondolemar smiled. “The Thalmor have decided to reassign me. I have been given the privilege of chaperoning the two of you in Alinor. Can't have you running off at King's Haven, can we?”

“Are you quite sure?” Kyndoril said. “Because that would save everyone some trouble, don't you think?”

Ondolemar and Sillawe stared at him.

“You aren't going to run from your own sister after all of this,” Sillawe said.

“He has every reason to fear his sister,” Ondolemar whispered. “Welcome to Alinoran politics.”

“This is absurd.”

“This is the way of things. And I advise you to hold your tongue when we land, painful as I'm sure it will be. Your sense of justice will not be welcome there.”

“Bah!”

“Indeed.”

Kyndoril felt his fear scurry away to gnaw on a corner of his mind while Sillawe and Ondolemar argued. Bantered, even. And as soon as the Thalmor were satisfied that their prisoner was aboard, they left Ondolemar to lead him and Sillawe below deck, for better seating and welcome shade.

“The sun is harsh today,” Sillawe noted.

Kyndoril drew a chair for her. “It's been some time since I felt the radiance of Magnus on my head like that.”

“That is a funny way to say one-hundred years.” Then she turned, and frowned at the retreating back of the Thalmor justiciar. “You, Ondolemar. What aren't you telling me?”

Ondolemar halted, his hand still on the stair rail. “What haven't _you_ told your wife, Kyndoril?”

Kyndoril folded his arms on the table between them. “I told her what happened to me. I did not explain all the particulars of Altmeri law.”

“That might have been prudent.”

“But who better to explain than a magistrate? If you have the time, of course.”

“All the time in the day, thanks to you.” Ondolemar grabbed another chair and sat between them. “Well, Sillawe. An ouster is a mer who has been cast out of their family, or banished from their lord's lands. An aprax is a mer who has broken the laws of Alinor. Both are shunned by the society of Alinor... or at least they are on the Blessed Isle. As it stands, your husband is both, and must face the price of his sins.”

“Sins and crimes are apparently the same thing now,” Kyndoril muttered.

“Oh, of course. A son of Estivel. But Luxurene's soft hand on such matters was hardly shared by the rest of the isles,” Ondolemar went on. “You should not expect the mercy that you yourself would have granted one-hundred years ago.”

“Is Cyrodwen not my mother's child as well?”

“High Kinlady Cyrodwen's reign has never been questioned. She rules as expected of an heir of Aldmeris, with the full approval of the aldarchs and the Thalmor council.”

Sillawe looked scandalized. “So then, she would treat her own brother as a criminal?”

“I hate to think of that,” Ondolemar told her. “Family is still sacred in Alinor, but so is loyalty, and mer who bring shame to their families are rarely tolerated. And now, it falls to Cyrodwen to pass judgment on a mer of her house, whatever his status.”

“Then....”

“I dare not guess her mind. But she has agreed to sail to King's Haven. We might be in luck. Or she simply may not want trespassers on her lands.”

“And if this fails? What then?”

“Then we seek other arrangements. For example, your husband could wait on me and open my wine bottles for the rest of his days.”

Sillawe's scowl bared teeth.

“He would have a say in the matter, of course.” Ondolemar gestured to Kyndoril.

Kyndoril had no answer. His mind was a haze of worry.

 


	7. King's Haven

In days, their ship arrived in King's Haven, and Ondolemar sent word to Luxurene. It did not take long for them to respond. Kyndoril attempted to hide in a feigned need for more sleep, but Ondolemar was no fool. He stood and knocked on the door of his room until he resigned himself to rise and face the Thalmor.

“Wear this,” said Ondolemar.

Kyndoril found a white silk shirt pressed into his arms – garb signaling humility, penitence, and reverence of the ancestors.

“Is this an audience or a sentencing?” he asked.

Ondolemar clapped him on the shoulder and left. Not exactly encouraging. When he had dressed and brushed his long hair smooth, he went to find the others.

Sillawe waited at their usual table, arms folded, face set in a worried frown that had become rare for her. It unnerved him.

“Ah. Kyn. They say I'm supposed to wait for you today.”

“Down here? Not even on the deck?”

“These Thalmor say it is not welcome.”

Kyndoril spotted Ondolemar listening from a nearby corner. “They're poor company. But I will return as soon as I can. I promise.”

“I will hold you to your word.”

He could not help the small smile that crept onto his face, and leaned down to kiss her soft cheek. “Of course you will. I only hope that I bring good news.”

“Do not waste hope. But go bravely.”

“Grim, but inspiring.”

“My mother was a grim woman.”

Her mother. Kyndoril's heart raced. Her _Atmoran_ mother, whose existence would damn her if found out now. He held his tongue and nodded.

“Don't let Ondolemar misbehave.”

“Nice try,” said Ondolemar. “I will accompany you today.”

“Oh, it's going to be dull here,” Sillawe whispered. “Wake me when you return.”

With one last look, Kyndoril turned and went to find the stairs, with Ondolemar at his heels.

King's Haven had not changed much in appearance since his last visit. The city, cut into the cliffs, rested north of an old passage to Lillandril and the Crystal Tower. The white tower, that should have stood atop those cliffs, stretching into the clouds. He had seen it so many times, but he could not find it.

“Ondolemar? What exactly happened to the tower?”

“Did no one tell you?”

“No.”

Ondolemar followed his gaze up to the cliffs. “The daedra breached its sanctuary one-hundred years ago and slaughtered its defenders. Then, the Crystal Tower collapsed.”

Kyndoril tried to ignore the lump in his throat. “And what of the Heart of Transparent Law?”

“It is not my place to know or guess. You will have to consult my superiors, if they ever deem you more worthy than a boot stain.”

“And that all depends on today.”

“It does.”

–

Luxurene arrived in a ship with white sails and green and gold banners bearing the sunflower crest. Kyndoril did not expect to be brought abroad, but the only pair of mer who disembarked did so to greet some representative that the Thalmor had sent on Kyndoril's behalf, before returning to the ship.

Instead, he and Ondolemar waited on the docks, Kyndoril growing more anxious as Magnus climbed the skies and clouds built over the seas.

The mer who found them, a herald he did not recognize flanked by guards in green glass armor, bore the news he dreaded.

“High Kinlady Cyrodwen upholds the judgment of the Thalmor. Leave, ouster, and seek repentance for your apraxis if you are so compelled.”

“Wait, you can't just–”

The herald stepped back, and the guards' hands twitched.

“Let me speak to my kinlady,” Kyndoril demanded.

The herald did not look at him, but addressed Ondolemar instead. “This thing is beneath her.”

“Steady, Kyndoril,” Ondolemar whispered, before turning to the herald. “This mer has suffered long and risked his life to return to Alinor, all for this. Would you deny him the chance to appeal to her?”

“What mer?”

If that was how it was going to be, so be it. Kyndoril stepped past the herald, while Ondolemar barked something behind him. He slapped the guards' hands from his arms and ignored the impact of moonstone on his palms and wrists. This, they could not ignore, and Kyndoril felt his shoulders wrench as they yanked him back by the elbows.

Kyndoril turned his face up to the deck of the ship, where he knew Cyrodwen waited. “Cyrodwen! Sister, please! Speak to me!”

It was disgraceful, and his face and eyes burned with the shame of it, but propriety be damned.

“Cyrodwen!”

Another mer appeared near the gangplank, gaunt, dressed in the colors of Luxurene, hair pulled tightly back. A floral crown sat on her brow. And after regarding him, she did descend. Kyndoril's insides chilled. Cyrodwen, in the span of a century, had become the image of their mother. But he had never seen such an expression of disdain on Estivel's face.

Before the herald could stammer an apology, Cyrodwen waved a hand. The herald disappeared onto the ship. And Kyndoril, arms released, threw himself to his knees.

Cyrodwen's voice was harsh. Cutting. “You have my attention now.”

“My sister.... My Kinlady! I beseech you, do not send us away!”

“So, this is what became of my brother,” she said. “My noble brother, too good for Altmeri study and cerimoniarchy. Too important to fulfill his ancestral duties when the gates of Oblivion opened. Decided to come crawling back when it was clear, did you? I suppose you and your wench were gallivanting around Cyrodiil when the Crystal Tower fell?”

What in Oblivion had the Thalmor even told her? Kyndoril struggled for words. “It was nothing like that! I spent every day fearing for our home. But I had no means to return, and–”

“Spare me your excuses. Your pathetic display and fragile loyalty make it clear that you have no place on the throne... or within a hundred leagues of it. You are banished from Luxurene and all its lands and waters.”

“Sister, please....” His voice weakened, and he bent closer to the wood below. “Have mercy. I gladly relinquish my birthright. I will not challenge you or your heirs. I ask only for your charity, for shelter... for myself and my wife....”

Somewhere above him, Ondolemar let out a faint sigh.

“Then seek it elsewhere,” Cyrodwen replied. “Begone. Or shall I inform the canonreeve that a vagrant and half-breed roam King's Haven?”

“I... but....” It was over. His stomach soured at the thought of Sillawe coming under scrutiny. He pushed himself to his feet, tried to hold back another wave of tears. “I... hear and obey. Stars guide you, my Kinlady....”

He backed away, turned, and the guards parted to let him pass. He did not raise his head again until Ondolemar's hand found his shoulder. The magistrate did not release his grip until they were safely below deck again.

“I want him under guard,” he told the justiciars. “He is not to be harmed, or permitted to leave this ship until I give the order. Where is the mer's companion?”

“Asleep, sir.”

“She was serious? Rouse her, if she will tolerate it.”

The justiciars left them, and Kyndoril found a chair to collapse in, where he buried his head and wept as he never had. Ondolemar did not leave.

–

Kyndoril was distraught, but Sillawe was heartbroken that Cyrodwen had held so much hatred for him. Ondolemar offered no opinion on the matter. A Thalmor magistrate had no concern for the conflicts of Alinor's subjects, let alone those all but cast from society. At least not in the eyes of onlookers.

When Kyndoril had come to terms with his sorrows, Ondolemar pointed out their next problem. Kyndoril's particular history and his new status rendered him unworthy to live anywhere upon the greater isle of Alinor. He would need to begin a new life on the eastern barrier island. Auridon.

Worse yet, he could not simply settle on Auridon as he saw fit. For in the wars that had followed the Oblivion Crisis, all of Auridon had become the absolute domain of High Kinlord Silabaene. And all because of his status and history, Kyndoril would have to petition him for his leave to exist there.

“Just take us back to Valenwood,” Kyndoril said.

“Are you a coward?” Ondolemar asked him. “Think of your wife! She has not suffered this nonsense just to return to the misery of Tamriel!”

“Alinor is misery,” Sillawe griped. “If my husband wants to go back to dancing on tables, I will go with him.”

Ondolemar's face softened. “You're quite a pair, aren't you. But Firsthold already expects your presence. Yours, Kyndoril. Not Sillawe's.”

“What will I even say to Silabaene?” he asked.

“Nothing, if I can help it.”

“He would not allow that.”

“Silabaene is bound to custom. We shall work within it.”

Kyndoril put his head back down. “I'm dead.”

“Then play dead if you wish! It will not save you when the mer of Rilis can smell fear.”

Kyndoril looked up at him in suspicion, at the mer who until this point had been the image of cold and proper authority. “You would insult _Silabaene_?”

Ondolemar grinned. “Who will find out?” And then he learned closer. “You are an ouster, Kyndoril. Nobody will ever listen to you. Nobody. And that is our advantage.”

 


	8. Firsthold

The sun was far too bright for a day of such a dreaded reunion. Kyndoril kept his eyes to the cobblestones and followed Ondolemar through the streets of Firsthold, grateful that his escort amounted to this and nothing more. His ears caught nothing unusual. He saw only a few strange looks as he and the black-robed magistrate walked. Perhaps such things were normal now.

Perhaps it helped that the Thalmor no longer bothered chaining him. And that he was dressed as a perfectly common Altmer of Alinor. His humble shirt and trousers from Velyn would not make a good impression, but.... Oh, who was he kidding? It was exactly as he needed to appear.

“My lord, how much do you know about Rilis and Luxurene?”

“Enough to know that only the Law of Stendarr protects you now,” Ondolemar answered. “For your wife's sake, mind yourself.”

The Law of Stendarr was a set of rules guiding justice in the Summerset Isles. Life was a sacred gift, and wasting years of it with excessive punishment or the shedding of blood without need was an affront to the Aedra. Though Altmeri justice could be harsh, even cruel, by the will of Stendarr it was never to exceed the crime or the station of the guilty, and it seldom barred the guilty from a chance at redemption.

Kyndoril wondered if Stendarr's will still mattered in Alinor, and if Ondolemar's faith that Silabaene would bend to it was not misplaced. As the walls of the palace grounds came into view, and he leaned forward to be heard.

“Isn't the castle on the other side of the city?” he asked.

“No.”

“Because I could have sworn....”

“Thinking of running?”

“It has crossed my mind.”

“It would be unwise, as you know.”

“Yes. I know.”

“As an ouster, you are nothing,” Ondolemar told him. “You are beneath the notice of High Kinlord Silabaene.”

“Then why are we here?” Kyndoril whispered as they passed beneath one of the gates. The manor stood before them, graht-oak doors imposing.

“Enough. You are nothing now. Remember that, and this may go smoothly.”

The glass-armored guards did not question Ondolemar's presence. Kyndoril felt his nerve drain as he stepped inside, the warmth of Magnus gone from his scalp. The heavy doors shut behind him.

The manor of Firsthold was fashioned in the old style common to Alinor. Just beyond the entrance was a spacious hall. And at the end, illuminated in the faint light of stained glass windows and winged sconces, was the throne.

As expected, a mer waited in that throne. He still wore the opulent silks he favored.

It was surreal, to be in such a position, a step behind Ondolemar, not even a hundred feet now between himself and his old enemy.

Ondolemar stopped and bowed before the Throne of Firsthold. Kyndoril instead went to his knees and leaned to the floor, where he did not have to show his face. Ondolemar spoke.

“High Kinlord Silabaene, I am Magistrate Ondolemar. I bring before you a disgraced mer, an ouster, a repentant aprax who seeks asylum on fair Auridon.”

Kyndoril straightened up and sat back on his heels, head still low as he could manage. Silabaene's voice was a cool as ever, softened only by his disinterest. “And who is this mer?”

“One who comes before you fearful, humbled by a century of ill fortune and guilt.”

“And his name is...?”

“Kyndoril.”

The hall fell quiet. And Kyndoril did not dare to lift his head, or move, or make a sound. When Silabaene spoke again, his voice was edged in anger.

“He will speak on his own behalf.”

Kyndoril glanced up in time to see Ondolemar bow again. “He is nothing more than an ouster now. As a Magistrate of the Divine Prosecu–”

“He will speak, or he will suffer for this insolence.”

Kyndoril swallowed his fear and raised his head to the throne. Silabaene's icy violet eyes were on him, face too smooth and too stiff, shoulders squared, all the marks of a kinlord fast approaching the end of his patience. And Kyndoril remembered, with horrible clarity, blinding those pale eyes with intense light a mere century ago.

“I... I cannot find words,” Kyndoril said, as terror threatened to claim his voice.

Silabaene rose from his throne.

Kyndoril tried to force his courage again. “There are no words I can say that are worthy of your ears. I am nothing.”

“So you would dare tell me that 'nothing' lingered in Tamriel during the Great Anguish? That 'nothing' disgraced the image of Alinor through crime? That 'nothing' committed high treason and fled from justice?”

“N-No! I mean yes! I... Well...!”

Ondolemar interrupted him. “Your Grace, the one guilty of these deeds was a High Kinlord. This mer before you has suffered dearly for it and paid the steepest penalty that can be bestowed by any kinhouse. He has nothing left to pay for the crimes of a greater mer.”

“Then take him and leave my lands.”

“If you do not take him, my lord, Alinor will not have him. He cannot live upon the Blessed Isle.”

“And I am sure he would prefer Tamriel.”

Relief and anguish grappled in his mind. Silabaene had not threatened his life, not yet. And anything to avoid that was good. But the thought of leaving Summerset again, of ending Sillawe's hopes, froze his veins.

He chanced another look at Silabaene. The High Kinlord of Firsthold watched. Waited. It was another game. One that had only begun. One that he had no ground in.

“Lord of Auridon,” Kyndoril said, “I am not worthy of your ears, but I pray to you now.”

“And once again, you resort to your deceptive tongue. I have humored you many times before. What treachery are you plotting now?”

“Please! All I ask is your leave to exist upon your island. I swear on my father's grave, I... I will disappear, I will not trouble you again. You have my word.”

“Magistrate, control your charge.”

“My apologies,” Ondolemar muttered. “Kyndoril–”

A gloved hand found his collar. Desperate, eyes watering, Kyndoril clasped his hands and reached for an ancient, more formal language.

Silabaene merely scoffed. “A high request from a worm! Let me hear you again in words befitting your tongue.”

Kyndoril cursed to himself. Aldmeris might have served him one-hundred years ago. Not now. He spoke to the rug, while tears flowed and his voice shook. “Lordly Silabaene... I ask only for your grace... and your mercy....”

“You ask this of me now?”

“Please....”

There was a long, painful moment in which nobody spoke, and he waited for Silabaene to unleash a storm of words, or more hands to seize him. But it did not happen.

“Magistrate, the wretch will be permitted to live in Vulkhel Guard. I trust the Thalmor will make the arrangements.”

“Oh, we will,” said Ondolemar. “Rest assured that the Thalmor have every resource and every reason to monitor a fallen kinlord. He will never trouble you after this. We will make sure of that.”

“See that he doesn't. My mercy has limits. And I am not so naive as to think, for even a moment, that he would come to my court with _nothing_ to lose.”

–

The return to the ship was a haze, where as soon as Kyndoril found his small room, he collapsed halfway over his bed and waited for sleep to take him.

He felt a hand on his head and heard Sillawe's voice. “Mara's crotch, Kyn. You look like you met a dragon.”

“I think I have.”

Ondolemar, who had followed like the unshakable presence he was, clarified for her. “High Kinlord Silabaene is as ruthless as he is great. You might recall that your husband caused him some inconvenience.”

“One-hundred years ago!” Sillawe exclaimed.

“Dear Sillawe,” Kyndoril sighed. “Altmer can hold grudges that last a thousand years.”

“I thought you mentioned some custom of Stendarr.”

“Stendarr's teachings are the only reason he still lives,” said Ondolemar. “But the High Kinlord of Firsthold is satisfied that he is broken. For now.”

“And now?”

”The worst is past. We sail to the south. To Vulkhel Guard. A charming little city by the sea, with a rich history, and a beautiful temple to Auri-El. And it is as far from Firsthold as you can get without leaving the island entirely.”

“And you?”

“You're both stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

 


	9. Blessings of the Sky

That is how Kyndoril and Sillawe came to live in a little shack by the sea on the outskirts of Vulkhel Guard. As soon as he had recovered from his ordeals, Kyndoril set to seeking work. There was little to be found for a mer of his disgrace, but there was opportunity at the docks, where they did not care who worked as long as they could move cargo. It was hot and painful work, full of aches and bruises that he struggled to soothe with healing magics. His grasp of the arcane, too, threatened to fade.

Sometimes, work was not enough to provide. And memories of Cyrodiil and crows roosted in the back of his mind. Sillawe did not need to know _how_ he brought home extra fruit or a bottle of wine. But judging from the arch of her eyebrows, she guessed.

Ondolemar, true to his word, remained nearby. He took up a new post in the city and dealt with the dregs of Vulkhel Guard when not busy with him. Kyndoril, for his part, kept him entertained by being dragged in for petty theft or apraxic trespass on holy grounds.

Despite all secrets and appearances, they were a happy trio. Sillawe and Ondolemar had become fast friends. And though she took little interest in him, she had no objections to him entering their relationship, or her husband's bed. He was courteous, he provided food and coin when he could give them, and her future children would essentially have a third parent. They had been blessed by Mara.

Time passed. The moons reappeared in the skies. Elsweyr entered the Aldmeri Dominion as Anequina and Pelletine. But they heard no other news of Tamriel, and Alinor seemed at peace.

–

As the years went on, Sillawe's health waxed and waned like the moons. Some weeks found her fatigued and favoring a chair by the fire. During others, she made a point to step out of their shack, walk along the shore, feel the stones and sand under her feet, and watch the tides. Kyndoril often joined her; these strolls were a welcome break from the slow toils of Vulkhel Guard.

It was on one such morning, after day and night of heavy cloud cover, that she knelt to lift something brittle and translucent out of the sand.

“What is this?”

Kyndoril gently took the shed skin and ran his fingers over it. It had been well over a century since he had ever had to think of it, but there was no mistaking the pattern of the scales, or its size. “A viper? We should head back.”

“Wait, what does it mean?”

Kyndoril returned the snakeskin to her. “Sea serpents. They rarely come this close to land without Maormer encouraging them, and they're dangerous enough without their handlers.”

“Maormer. Those sea folk from the songs?” Sillawe asked. “Your bards here say they were routed ages ago.”

Kyndoril bit his cheek. Routed, perhaps. That was different from complete destruction, and who knew if Pyandonea had recovered. “So they do. The skin might be a coincidence. In all likelihood, a hungry viper chased a school of fish to shore and decided to sun itself. But... I'll see what I can learn.”

“If this is an omen, it is... dull.”

“It is.” And he turned to face the sea, where a wall of clouds hung in the distance. “Well, Orgnum, or whoever reigns now. Should we be worried?”

The storm answered with heavy cloud lightning and a faint rumble.

“Now that is a reason to go back,” Sillawe said, and began walking again.

The hurricanes that lashed the coasts of Auridon each summer and fall were a sight, but they were rarely so fearsome as to provoke worry. Whether that was luck, a blessing of the Aedra, or a testament to the isles' perfection was anyone's guess. Sillawe's theory was simple, and she explained it while he began preparing tea.

“You Altmer, you see every hurricane, and you get used to them,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “What is one more storm out of a hundred like it? And to me, what are these blizzards you speak of?”

“The sea would still take an Altmer,” Kyndoril said, finding a pair of mugs. “But we learn to see the weather for what it is. Suppose that someone could create a ghastly blizzard so cold that no Falmer could withstand it.”

“There were legends. The wrath of the gods would bring endless winter,” Sillawe explained. “Summer would never come. The ground would be all frost, and little would grow. Falmer would freeze even in the light of Auri-El.”

“I thought most of Skyrim was already cold as Lorkhan's pits.”

“What?”

Kyndoril, as he searched for the tea leaves, recalled his old studies on Tamriel and the words of so many Nords. “From what I last heard, everything from the coast to the mountains is a frozen wasteland, and then beyond that is inhospitable tundra, until you reach the warmer valleys near Cyrodiil.”

“That is absurd.”

“Remind me why you're called Falmer...?”

“Yes, it was cold there. It was not some ball of ice!”

“Well, if it any comfort, Cyrodiil too has this problem.”

“What, being frozen when I turn my back?”

“For some reason, a few prominent scholars as far back as the Second Era think Cyrodiil was once a land of dense, hot forest that should rival Valenwood.”

“That is also a pile of shit.”

“It is, and yet so many swear it is true. Others of their time disputed them. And then after the rise of Talos, there were those who claimed he used the power of the Divines to change the Cyrodiil of the past to what we know today.”

“I said it is shit. I was in Cyrodiil before the First Era, and it was mild and not a great forest!”

“That does make you a more reliable source than feuding scholars,” Kyndoril said. “Besides... it would be blasphemous to even think that a mere mortal could do such a thing.”

They didn't need the Thalmor breaking down their door, of course.

“So, what are you going to do about the snake?”

“I'll bring it up with Ondolemar when I get a chance.”

–

The viper skin was soon forgotten. One morning not long after the arrival and passage of the hurricane, Kyndoril awoke to the unpleasant sound of retching and caught sight of Sillawe bent over a pail. She seemed to recover by midday, and they decided to blame the fish.

The next morning, it happened again. As soon as she'd finished heaving, Sillawe accepted a damp rag and then brushed off the rest of his doting.

On the third morning, as soon as Sillawe had lost her breakfast and returned to bed to rest, Kyndoril went running up the beach and into the city for help. The Temple of Auri-El was not far from the gates. In minutes, he had crossed under the archway into the vibrant gardens and passed one of the fountains, ignoring the shouts that rose behind him. The marble temple came into view....

He thought that his foot had caught something on the ground. But when he fell heavily on the cobblestones, he found picking himself up to too great an effort. He twisted around to see a pair of mer in eagle armor approaching.

“Wait! It's urgent!”

The justiciars hauled him off the ground and back toward the gate.

“It's trespass,” said one of the Divine Prosecution. “You know that.”

“I need a healer,” Kyndoril told them. “It's my wife! She's been ill for days, she–”

“Go find the apothecary, then.”

That was more than they could afford, and Kyndoril did not imagine that haggling would go well. “For Mara's sake, can't one of you just send for a healer?”

“Don't bring the gods into this, aprax.”

Now there was an idea. “I will bring the gods into this if I damn well please.”

“Enough!”

“Is it too much to ask that Auri-El get off his radiant arse and help my–”

The guards threw him bodily out of the temple grounds. Kyndoril barely had time to cast a shield spell before he hit the stairs and began to bounce. Such spells unfortunately did little to stop blunt impacts, and he was left to scrape himself and his many new bruises off the street.

So. The Divine Prosecution were going to make things difficult. That was _fine._ It wasn't as if he had _never_ crept around off-limits places before. Kyndoril stood up, let the justiciars see him leave, and made his way south to the docks.

The temple grounds stretched to the south and west, close to the city's taverns and markets. That left plenty of space to get in, if one could scale the short wall. It did not take long to find a vulnerable spot; said wall met a small rocky bluff behind one of the shore's warehouses, and there was no shortage of tree roots and vines to pull himself close to the top of it.

Kyndoril peered over. A few monks, visible by their white and brown robes, tended little gardens around cherry trees. Nobles in bright silks wandered along the pathways. No actual guards were in sight.

Making himself invisible was a feat that he had never managed on his own. But silencing his own steps was by no means a challenge, and he dropped from the wall without a single blade of grass rustling under his feet.

The rest was all in calm discretion. He folded his arms behind his back and walked as if he too were one of the visiting faithful, pausing here and there to admire the trees, or to bow his head in homage when passing an ancestral shrine. Soon he had found his way to the temple doors and slipped behind the back of a guard.

As soon as the door had closed, he abandoned his aloof image and sought the aldarch. He found him – a mer whose face had started to wrinkle with age, garbed in white silk vestments.

“Fivefold venerations,” Kyndoril bowed. As the aldarch's eyes narrowed, he added, “I know I'm unwelcome, but I need help.”

“Begone.”

“I will do as you say, but I need a healer. My wife is ill and I do not have the skill or coin to....”

A familiar voice rose behind his back. “You _again_?”

“Will you _ignore_ a sick mer?” Kyndoril asked, as the guards drew nearer.

“Sickness is a part of mortality,” said the aldarch. “One that the Ancestors bid us to endure in strength.”

“She's endured for days! And she's already frail enough without this! You have to–”

The Divine Prosecution dragged him from the temple before he could get another word in. But instead of releasing him outside the grounds, they hauled him off to the magistrates, reducing Kyndoril's hopes to the possibility of a certain mer being on duty.

–

Under the laws of Alinor, those who engaged in crimes were required to pay the courts a fine that would then go to those they'd transgressed against. Failing that, there was indentured service. Kyndoril, low on coin and barred from temple grounds, was not able to pay either form of debt to the temple. That left him in his shack, wearing something the magistrates referred to as the Penitent's Anklet of Extreme Discomfort, a horrid enchanted thing that shocked him and alerted the Divine Prosecution if he dared to stray too far from his own doorstep.

But it was not in vain. His arrest had caught Ondolemar's attention, and the mer had used his own gold to hire the services of the healer that Sillawe needed. The healer spent ten minutes speaking to Sillawe before laughing at Kyndoril's initial panic. Sillawe was not in danger. She was merely pregnant. The healer gave some advice to ease the morning sickness, then left them to take in their surprise.

“A child?” Sillawe exclaimed. “After all this time, the gods bless me with a child!”

“This is... incredible!” Kyndoril tamped down his creeping anxiety – that the coming months would be hardest on Sillawe, that raising a child in Alinor could be dangerous.... He bent down to embrace his wife. “We'll need to tell Ondolemar, make arrangements for all the rites–”

“Ah, how are you going to do that with that thing on your foot?”

Kyndoril straightened up and looked at his leg. He had nearly forgotten the steel cuff in his growing excitement. “So I'll tell him when he comes to check on us. And the magistrates said I could go free again in eight days. It's not like the baby is coming in the next week.”

“Stuhn's iron balls.... Kyn! I want you to stay out of trouble after this!”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you! I don't care if Ondolemar doesn't mind. You must be more careful for the child's sake!”

Kyndoril smiled sheepishly and sat by the bed. “You had me worried, Sillawe! I would not have provoked the guards for nothing. But... you are right. I will be more cautious.”

–

As the year continued, Ondolemar offered to arrange things for them. They needed a decent midwife, and that was a service he was willing to pay for. Then there were clothes. A cradle. Better food and the service of an alchemist to help ensure a healthy pregnancy. And of course the city aldarch would see to the baby's rites. Kyndoril might have been apraxic and unwelcome, but Sillawe was an innocent commoner, and by Xen her child would be respected as such.

Sillawe made further plans. The child would have to be raised as an Altmer of Alinor, but they would learn something of their mother's history. Falmeri and Altmeri traditions weren't too terribly different. If they were clever, they could pass down a bit of what her father had taught her and then tell the child the rest when they came of age. No one would be the wiser.

However, she would have to stop cursing by the names of Atmoran gods, even in the privacy of their home. Not even Ondolemar would be able to explain if the child breathed a word of Shor.

The baby was born to them late in the night, on the thirteenth of Evening Star in One-Fifty-One. And as the midwife had predicted, the child was very much the image of his mother. Sillawe, exhausted and pleased, held her little son. And when the midwife left them, she gave him a fitting name.

“When they took us below Rielle, I thought I'd never see the sky again,” she whispered. “Or live to have a child of my own. So, little one, you will carry a name in thanks of Kyne's grace and her skies. Kyndriel.”

The name was lovely, but there was one small problem. Such names were typically given to girl children, and the Thalmor would not accept such a bold deviation. Kyndoril gently breached the topic while little Kyndriel slept.

“Ha. I already thought of that,” Sillawe said. “We can tell the aldarch that his name is Kynril, and tell the boy the truth when he is old enough to decide what he wants. Either way, it is the same. He shares a name with his father and honors the sky.”

“It's perfect.”

 


	10. Sillawe's Will

Sillawe was a loving mother. She took delight in her son's antics, taught him Falmeri stories of the Aedra, and lulled him to sleep with songs she remembered from her childhood in Skyrim. She would take him to the beach and city gardens during the day and teach him to look for constellations at night.

But it would not last. Just a few years after the birth of her child, her poor health caught up with her. She grew weaker and more fatigued, and in time was overcome by illness.

Again, Kyndoril begged for healers to tend to her, and they were reluctant to heed the requests of an apraxic husband. The apothecary took pity on them, but the alchemist could not make sense of her condition, let alone treat what she could not diagnose. She left behind a bottle of potion to manage the pain. Kyndoril tried the healers again, to no avail.

Ondolemar grew furious and threatened to bring the Divine Prosecution down upon the next healer who denied Sillawe's lawful right to the temple's care, regardless of who asked on her behalf. When he finally convinced someone to see to her, it was too late. Sillawe was dying.

“Listen to me, Kyn,” she told him, as he sat at her bedside and muffled his sobs in a pillow. “I am not young. I was already centuries old when I went below Rielle. And it has been how long since we met? One-hundred and fifty years, maybe?”

“Why this? Why now?”

“It was going to happen like this eventually. I knew it before we left Bruma. This body could only last so long under Rielle. It became weak. It was not going to last forever.”

“You're too dear to me....”

“I know, Kyn. And you have already given me so much. Like a life, when I would have died in some Ayleid box.”

There were no words that eased his grief, but for Sillawe's sake, he cloaked it in dedication. “You _will_ be remembered and honored. Kyndriel will know your story. He will know his mother's strength and love.”

“It is enough.” Sillawe reached up to stroke his hair. “Tell Ondolemar I want to see him later.”

The magistrate came as requested, arriving as soon as his office freed him from the day's work. His face held a practiced calm, one learned from dealing with the unfortunates brought before his desk. But a bleariness in his eyes betrayed sorrow. Sillawe ignored it.

“There you are! Come here, you. I need a favor.”

The mer was caught off guard, but he approached and knelt by her bed. “Name it.”

“Watch over my delicate husband for me,” she said. “And see that no harm comes to the child.”

It was a bold request to make of a Thalmor magistrate. It carried so much danger of asking Ondolemar to someday choose between his loyalty to the crown or his word. But Ondolemar nodded.

“Yes. I will do all in my power to protect them both.”

Kynril was smarter than Kyndoril thought. He caught on quickly, and after a kind explanation and some tears he understood what they meant when they told him that his mother would soon pass to Aetherius. If nothing else, he was not surprised when the day came.

As the end approached, Sillawe saw something in her child that was not apparent to anyone else. Her last words to him stuck in Kyndoril's memory.

“Be a brave little dragon. Your ancestors will always watch over you. And so will I.”

–

Sillawe passed in the year One-Fifty-Six and was cremated, as was the custom of Summerset. Her ashes were interred within the Temple of Auri-El.

–

Kyndoril gave his son the best childhood possible. He was fed well whenever he could afford it, and he donned the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal to provide when he couldn't. Sometimes, he was caught and the magistrates demanded steep fines that he was in no position to repay. He learned to apply more caution when stealing fruit and rice. But Ondolemar grew tired of this and insisted that Kyndoril ask for his help instead. After all, Sillawe would have preferred it that way.

But that was help Ondolemar gave from a distance. It was not grief or neglect, or a lack of concern. He did not want Sillawe's young son to misunderstand the role of the Thalmor in his life, or expect special treatment from the law. If he ever came to believe he could trust the Divine Prosecution, let alone any of the Thalmor, he would only put himself in danger. And Ondolemar already had enough of that from the father.

But that at least left Kyndoril with more time to enrich the Kynril's life in other ways. He taught him of heroes of the past, from Dominion leaders to the Great Mage to other significant figures of Tamriel. He showed him to pray to the gods with all the formalities expected of an Altmer. And, most important of all, he saw that Kynril learned to speak and read and write in both Altmeris and Common Tamrielic.

Those lessons, the child took to as a swan takes to punishing trespassers. Nothing escaped him. Nothing was forgotten.

Sillawe had been right. Their son was a dragon. A dragon who hoarded vocabulary. Everything was devoured, taken into his growing young mind. He could see new words and recite them back with astounding accuracy. He was always hungry for more text, and so demanded to read everything he could set his eyes on.

One day, he felt a tug at his shirt as they passed an inn. “Father, let me see that!”

Kyndoril looked where his son pointed. A proclamation of the Thalmor had been nailed up on a post for all to read. He scanned it first. The Thalmor, by the authority of the High King, had strengthened all laws regarding treason and its punishment. Their justiciars in the Divine Prosecution had been granted the authority to summarily execute anyone suspected of betraying Alinor or the Crown.

“Let's not practice reading this one,” said Kyndoril.

“But why? What does it say?”

“It says... that... we must always respect our good High King. Bad mer will go straight to Oblivion.”

“I already know that.”

“Yes.” Kyndoril sighed. Any day he did not have to explain the nature of the Thalmor to a small child was a good one. “Exactly.”

“So why can't I read it?”

This. This was why Ondolemar wanted to distance himself from the boy.

“Because I have a better idea,” said Kyndoril. “Let's go buy your favorite pears from the market!”

Kynril frowned. “Are you bribing me?”

“I am.”

“Okay. I guess you have a reason.”

The child was barely six.

As Kynril grew, so did his young frustration with his lot in life. He became determined to assist with everything. Kyndoril took him to the docks and presented him to his superiors to learn the fine art of hefting cargo around. Under close supervision. Despite Kynril's protests, ten was far too young to work alone.

Sometimes, Kyndoril enjoyed fantasies of sending the child to a university in Lillandril or Shimmerene. So many paths of knowledge could have been laid out before him, if they had the coin or the favor of a lord. With luck, time and effort would lift him from the slums that Silabaene had cast their family into. The child would escape into a normal, respected life among the people of Alinor.

But that was not to be. The Dominion and the remnants of the Empire came to the verge of war. And the Thalmor were constantly seeking new bodies for the Dominion's armies. Auridon was a martial island, brimming with proud veterans and their descendants, and poorer folk who could not convince the nobles of their value otherwise.

That is why, near the age of sixteen, Kynril was conscripted into service. The news left him startled and afraid, but there was one small blessing. After a decade of distance, he did not recognize Ondolemar when he delivered the orders, and did not feel the sting of betrayal that Kyndoril did. As for Kyndoril, though he knew that it was out of Ondolemar's hands, he could no longer stomach the thought of him.

New Life came, quiet and joyless. His son departed for Skywatch, and Kyndoril fell back into despair. His wife was gone. He feared that his only child would soon join her in Aetherius. And he was, for the first time, alone in that little shack by the sea.

 


	11. The Fall of Luxurene

With nothing left to lose and even less motivation to drag himself to an honest job, Kyndoril lapsed back into dangerous activities. Namely, reckless drinking and creeping about the city to replenish his pantry when he ran low on food. Obviously not at the same time. That would have ended badly.

The Gray Cowl of Nocturnal was very appealing.

“Nocturnal, Goddess of Shadows, help me,” Kyndoril whispered. “For I... am absolutely out of fucks to give.”

Nocturnal did not respond. Nor was he bothered by crows.

But no mer would ever need to know who visited the market that day. Invisibility was no longer beyond his power. And years of experience had improved his walk, his touch, his ability to weave between people without notice. It he was lucky, he wouldn't even _need_ the cowl.

He wore it, just in case. And soon he had a modest yield. A few pounds of jerked beef. A bunch of bananas and Summerset oranges. A week's worth of rice and dried vegetables and enough spices to last him a month. And surely that fisher wouldn't miss a _few_ coins swept off his table, with every couple in the city out to buy roasted Eltheric eel. Which he also sampled, because why not.

And it went as well as ever. Bag bulging with pilfered food, still below notice in the Sun's Dawn cold, he left the market and meandered east.

The guards did not see him climb the steps into Vulkhel Guard's holy grounds. He moved silently down the spotless path, between the great Temple of Auri-El and the canonreeve's manor. He took a moment to admire the young growth on the trees against the iron-gray skies. To whisper a prayer to the Aedra and Sillawe that all would be well. And then he prepared to leave.

He had not walked far from the shrine when he felt an _eye_ upon him.

That should not have been. He recast his spells and hurried out the other archway, around the back of the watchful guard, down the hill, and south again toward the beach.

But no, that didn't help. They certainly noticed him now. By the gods, had the eel really been too much indulgence?

Kyndoril skirted the stairway fence and crept to the soft grass behind the warehouses, to the shadows, where he would disappear and wait–

A grip of magicka tightened around him. He hit the ground knees first and tried to rise, only to find himself struggling on his side, burdened by impossible weight. The spell of invisibility fell away like water.

He saw the black and gold boots at the trim of robes before he felt the threat of magic on the air.

“I yield,” Kyndoril sighed, putting his head down again.

“A wise move.”

Oh, he knew that voice. And better to hear it than any other. At most, he would have to endure scorn. But... he realized too late what he looked like.

Ondolemar stooped, reached forward with a gloved hand, and pulled the cowl from his face. Then he froze.

“The Gray Fox,” Ondolemar whispered. “Under my nose for all this time.”

Playing dumb would not work on a magistrate. Or Ondolemar, who knew him too well for that.

“Can we just forget this happened?”

“Daedra worship? As the master of the Thieves Guild?” Ondolemar spat. “I am a Magistrate of the Divine Prosecution, a hand of the Thalmor. You ask me to overlook what I should destroy here and _now_.”

“For what it's worth, I'm no guildmaster,” Kyndoril admitted. “The damn thing was charity from the last Gray Fox and nothing more. And I... don't actually worship... Nocturnal.... Though she does haunt me.”

Ondolemar grimaced and stuffed the cowl deep into his pocket. “Why do you put us in this position? Has all sense finally left you?”

Kyndoril said nothing. Ondolemar did not relent.

“Is it grief?”

“What use do the Thalmor have for grief,” said Kyndoril. “Do as you will. I have no reason left to care.”

“We both know that is a lie.”

He was sharp as ever. And he offered a hand. Kyndoril eyed it warily.

“Come. You know how this works,” said Ondolemar. “I've a report to write. And you will have debts to pay.”

“Debts. Not blood?”

“No. But Stendarr help you if I find the Mace of Molag Bal under your floorboards next.”

Kyndoril accepted the hand and let Ondolemar lead him back into the city. And Ondolemar ignored the matter of heresy. The cowl went unmentioned in his report. But he did insist, as always, that Kyndoril come to him before doing something so foolish again. They forgave each other.

–

Ondolemar, being Thalmor, was in a position to inquire after both Kyndoril's son and his estranged family. This was a service that he offered to ease Kyndoril's mind, and it was a thing that he requested with caution. Kyndoril did not want to raise suspicions or attract attention from Luxurene or Firsthold.

Within a few years of training, Kynril grew into a strong young mer. He took well to his exercises and if his dedication remained unwavering, he would be a fine marine.

High Kinlady Cyrodwen valued her privacy. But she too had a son. Kyndoril feared that the young Kinlord Valamand would suffer his own fate in time; he had developed his own fantasies of glory and left home against his mother's wishes. But rather than take his leave to Cyrodiil, he had given himself to the Thalmor to advance his magical studies.

Valamand had great potential, as a battlemage perhaps. But that would never do. The one minor problem with his choice was that battlemages had a tendency to meet an untimely demise. And Luxurene needed him to succeed where Kyndoril had failed.

Kyndoril had never imagined returning to politics, even from afar. But Ondolemar had contacts, and the nobility still held mer who were _sympathetic_ to Kyndoril, fallen mer that he was. They would understand his remorse, his loyalty to his kin, his desire to prevent further tragedy. Especially if that humble concern for family left grand roles to be filled by other kinhouses.

But Kyndoril would not have time to pull the strings. He would not remain long enough for that task. In his absence, another would persuade relevant authorities that Valamand was too soft from his privileged life, too naive, and utterly unprepared for combat. One day many years later, he would hear that his scheme had kept him in the academy and spared him from war.

No. Before his plans for Valamand could come to fruition, Kyndoril would receive terrible news. High Kinlady Cyrodwen had passed, by her own hand.

–

Everything. Everything Kyndoril had ever done had cost his family their lives. His poor sister was gone. His son and nephew were doomed to follow, for the glory of the High King and Alinor. It was hopeless.

Ondolemar stayed with him that night. The mer's presence, the refuge of his arms, kept him from drinking himself into a stupor.

“Do not think she truly hated you.”

Kyndoril did not answer.

“Understand,” Ondolemar said, “that she protected you in her own way. Exile was cruel, but it saved you from notice of the other houses. She knew this.”

“And now?”

“Kinlord Valamand has ignored his duties to Luxurene. Knowing the boy, he will persist in his ambitions.”

“That must end, for the sake of Luxurene. Until then.... Dear gods. The Thalmor must think I....”

“It is expected that you will challenge Valamand's claim.”

“No.”

“Hm?”

The throne of Luxurene was a burden that he had failed to bear long ago. And the floral crown no longer suited him. “No! Valamand _will_ take the throne. He will take his mother's place if I have to call Lorkhan from the Void to _drag him to it_.”

“First of all, the Thalmor would prefer that. Second, if you are serious about Lorkhan, we are going to have problems, you and I.”

Kyndoril thought of the Fox, and silently prayed for its cunning intervention. “All this time, and the Thalmor think I will interfere.”

“They do.”

“And what do you think, Magistrate?”

Ondolemar snorted. “I think I see why Sillawe demanded I swear that oath to her. Do as you wish, Kyndoril. But think of your family, and yourself. For my sake.”

 


	12. The Tempest

In the days after Cyrodwen's passing, one thing became clear. If Kyndoril was to have any future, he needed to get the hell away from Alinor. Before the Thalmor decided that he needed to be removed. Before Silabaene invented a reason to have him executed. He gave up all illicit activities in Vulkhel Guard and began to rely on Ondolemar for food and protection.

But, grief had once again left him prone to poor decision. And opportunity to humor madness presented itself on the shores of Auridon that he and Sillawe had once walked.

His first clue that something was amiss was the flotsam. Wood had drifted into the waters of the harbor and up the coast. Eerie as the sight was, it was also a rare opportunity; firewood was yet another expense and and cutting the High Kinlord's trees would only incite the Prosecution. No one would care for scraps of wreckage. As he walked the beach and gazed over the ocean, unease settled deeper into his gut. Storm clouds sat low over the water, and yet no winds blew.

He continued north. Sand, wet and dry, had been gouged by something dragging itself up from the water. Fresh blood left a clear trail leading further up the coast, toward a rocky outcropping just beyond the city's sea wall. Into a cave that Kyndoril had vague knowledge of. He set his firewood down at the entrance and followed the blood.

It had been inhabited, once. Some marble tiling and support columns of Aldmeri fashion remained, and welkynd stones still cast a faint glow over the watery cavern.

He found the victim from the shore. They were limp where they can come to rest against a pile of rocks. Their helmet was askew; thick black hair spilled out. Blood trickled from lacerations on shimmering arms. And as he approached, dim eyes snapped open.

Kyndoril looked into the startled, angry face of a Maormeri sailor. And he wondered why he had no desire to flee, despite all sense screaming that he should leave. But what was the threat, really? Here was a mer, just as alone as he was, if not more so.

The Maormer might have preferred that, from the warning they gave. “Stay away....”

Kyndoril stopped and offered a small bow. “Peace. I'm not armed. Or armored. I mean you no harm.”

“Do not mock me, Altmer.”

Kyndoril sat, out of reach, and considered. The wounds did not look terrible, but if the sailor had come to hide here and would not move, there were more than cuts and bruises to deal with.

The Maormer sensed the spell that he'd been preparing. And before he could make any more objections, Kyndoril cast it. A golden light fell over the mer, and his pained expression eased. A healthy gray returned to his face, and he began to get to his feet.

“You fool. You never should have come here.”

“Yes, I've heard that before,” Kyndoril said. “But who sits by while a wounded mer crawls ashore? A heartless bastard, that's who.”

“That heart of yours just cost you your life.”

But the Maormer had not made any move to harm him.

“Did it?”

The sailor bared teeth at him. Perfectly flat, ordinary teeth. It must have been a rumor that they all had the fangs of a shark.

Kyndoril pressed on before the Maormer could respond. “Are you boasting about an assured victory? Or are you just lamenting it? Because I've met ruthless mer before, and trust me when I say that you seem far more reasonable.”

He heard more boots on the rock somewhere behind him – not the familiar clip of Altmeri steel and moonstone, but something quiet and rough. Time was up.

The Maormer shook his head. “You know what? I don't think I'll kill you.”

“Yes, I know. Your comrades standing right behind me are probably more up to the task.”

Kyndoril looked over his shoulder. No less than five heavily armored Maormeri sailors had arrived. The one with ornate serpent pauldrons spoke for the group.

“What is the meaning of this, Altmer?”

Kyndoril slowly got to his feet. “I have healed your injured friend. He'll need to rest a day or two yet.”

“Keep talking. You didn't come out here just to play nurse.”

“Doesn't anyone do acts of kindness just for fun these days?”

The Maormer had not killed him yet. And dying at the hands of Pyandoneans was not preferable to whatever the Thalmor would have in store. But, as Kyndoril weighed the possibilities of his untimely demise, something dawned on him.

Enemies though they were, the Maormer did not answer to any in Alinor. They had no reason, beyond thousands of years of animosity between their countries, to want him dead.

And more importantly, they had ships.

“Listen. We all know our positions.” Kyndoril folded his hands behind his back and tried to project more dignity than he felt he had. “I came here defenseless, knowing what might await. That I might be followed, and not by Auridon marines. Now... I am fully prepared to get on my knees and cry over your boots as we Altmer are wont to do, but I think it would serve us all better if I just skipped to the part where I reveal that I have a favor to ask.”

Not one of them had drawn a weapon. That was a good sign.

“And you think we won't just gut you for trying to bargain with our comrade's life?”

“Well, I'm hoping you won't, because that would make things difficult for me.”

The Maormer were not impressed by his audacity and prepared to leave. And he threw dignity away again. At first, they were not receptive to his pleas, but he offered them two things: a trinket that he had carried since his days in Cyrodiil, and something of greater value that was no longer his to give.

A bargain was struck.

–

Kyndoril dreamed of warning his son. Of telling him that all would be well, that the news he would hear would be false. That he did not want him to mourn, but to hold hope that the Aedra would keep them both safe and that one day they would meet again.

–

He thought of stealing his son away from Skywatch and fleeing with him.

But that wasn't a life that he wanted to drag him into. Besides, what would a young marine think of pirates? What would pirates do with the child?

–

The day of the plan drew nearer. And he found solace in Ondolemar's arms.

“You're really going through with it?”

Kyndoril felt a hand run through his hair, and committed the touch to his memories. “I don't want a horde of angry Maormer coming after me for getting cold feet, do I?”

“No. I suppose not. I just hope that Sillawe can forgive me for letting you run off like this.”

“Just look after our son.”

Ondolemar was silent for a moment. “Fate permitting.”

–

He held Sillawe's amulet and traced his finger over the little sun. Cruel as her flight from Skyrim had been to her, Auri-El had always been at her side. He prayed that the Dragon would watch over him as well.

There was no sense in taking more from the house. It would draw attention. And besides, if Kynril wished to collect anything afterward, before the house was truly abandoned or sold to another mer, he would have that right.

Kyndoril pulled the amulet over his head, tucked it into his shirt, and left the little shack on the beach for the last time.

A job awaited on a merchant vessel. One bound for Hammerfell. And as work board the ship wore on, as Kyndoril took one chore after another, he kept a close watch on the ocean skies.

Even in the Abecean... especially in the Abecean... it was not unheard of for a hurricane to blow in toward the end of Hearthfire.

When the alarm was raised at last and they were overtaken by a deluge, he saw the other ship. The Maormer in the water below, ghostly pale against the churning seas. Their hands... set in rude gestures, while he hesitated.

The deck heaved, and he allowed himself to fall, holding his breath, aiming with his feet....

The Maormer seized him and threw a cord around his neck. A magical barrier appeared around his nostrils and mouth, and yet he did not dare to draw breath. The Maormer did not wait for him to prepare – they pulled him deep below the waves and toward the safety of their ship.

–

The Maormeri sailors, in their mercy, did not interrogate him again. Instead, they led him below deck to dry his fragile land mer body by the kitchen fire. Then they left him there to eat, to grieve, and to help himself to the wine.

Then the wolves came. Big, angry wolves that roared and pursued him through a field of dying flowers, bit at his legs, leapt and tore at his back, his arms, his shoulders until they caught him at last and decided to gnaw on his skull.

He awoke in a hammock, with a headache that would have stopped a dremora. A nearby figure stopped to watch him.

“What happened?” Kyndoril asked.

The Maormer came into clearer focus. “You got hammered.”

His head certainly felt like it. “No, I mean what did I do?”

“Well, you spent a while crying about your wife and son.”

Kyndoril remembered who he'd left behind. As he hoped that Kynril would handle his grief better than his father handled his guilt, he felt tears form again.

But the pirate kept talking. “We tried to cheer you up. Got you talking a bit and having some fun with the crew. And then you started singing some bawdy shanty.”

“What?”

“And when the captain decided to shut you up, you.... Well, you propositioned her. Don't worry, she doesn't take drunken imbeciles to bed.”

Kyndoril blushed and looked away. “Anything else I should know before I face the crew?”

“Well, in the middle of it all, you asked us if we wanted to see a party trick some Martin taught you. Then you told us that we had to keep it a secret, because he was a priest and you didn't want to ruin his reputation.”

“Put me back in the sea. I've made my peace.”

“You might be joking, highborn,” the Maormer said, voice suddenly sharp. “But we put a lot on the line to rescue your pert golden butt.”

Kyndoril raised his head. It throbbed. “And I gave you everything I offered. Why keep me?”

“You begged us to rescue you from Alinor. And we agreed to get you safely to Tamriel. What you do there is your business. But go dying on us now, dishonor us here, and we'll just take your fleeing spirit and shove it into a nice little animus geode where you can fuel a tempest instead.”

“Fine,” Kyndoril grumbled. “A ship full of Maormer _determined_ to keep me safe. I must be the luckiest Altmer alive.”

“You and dozens of other poor bastards.”

“I... what?”

“Enough. Up you get, now. The healer has something for hangovers.”

 


	13. Beyond the Jeralls

Returning to Cyrodiil was less than pleasant. The Maormer stranded him near Anvil in the dark of night, close enough to reach his destination by foot, but not so close that they would draw notice. Kyndoril dragged his feet through the sand, up the marble-dotted hills, toward those looming stone walls. He stopped at the gate. He could almost hear a priest claim him as one of his own. Heart and head full of bittersweet memories, he made he his way to the chapel.

One-hundred and seventy-one years had seen the Great Chapel of Dibella restored, and Rhylus no longer lurked in the catacombs. Neither did some ghost of Ohmonir, though his memories flooded back to haunt him with visions of shaking death and old fears of retribution. These traumas did not care that he had already faced Silabaene's wrath.

Kyndoril knew that he would not be safe in Anvil. If anyone recognized a mer who should have died at sea, his ruse would end and even Kynril's honor would suffer.

So, he did exactly what he should not have done. He pilfered a silver longsword from Dibella's chapel, stole another horse while the stablemaster slept, and fled. He rode east, then north, skirting the highlands and cutting up into the Great Forest. His old haunts, the ruins of Ayleid cities, made perfect campgrounds.

News of the Dominion followed him. Rumors buzzed through every town that he dared to enter: Thalmor scouts had been seen in the wilds. Elves had been asking too many questions about the Empire. An Aldmeri delegation was expected in the Imperial City. These things, he knew, did not concern him and his flight. He had heard enough warmongering in Auridon to know to fear the Dominion outside its borders. But he made a point of staying silent and out of the way of every Altmer he spotted.

His crossing of Cyrodiil took him north, into the Jerall Mountains. The ruins of Rielle were close.

To his shame, he did not enter Rielle. Sillawe's memory was too much to bear, and he could not face the rest of the dead. Any of them, he knew, could have had the second chance she had been given. Though he knew that he had not been the one to deny them, the guilt crushed him. Later, he would only regret his cowardice from afar.

Kyndoril paused in Bruma only for supplies – thick furs and a cloak from a tailor. The tailor would wake to find an apology scribbled near his ledger, and not before Kyndoril had ridden north to the frigid mountain pass.

The gateway to Skyrim stood wide before him. He urged the horse up the snowy path and through the heavy, reinforced doors.

“Well, Sillawe. Here I am,” he prayed. “Your old homeland.”

He touched the amulet, just to make sure it was still there, and continued riding.

The sight of mountain snow, stark against a bright sky, was otherworldly and beautiful. But the cold wind drove through the gaps in the fur, stinging his eyes and cheeks. He rode south and down the mountain, as quickly as the horse could stand it. After a frozen eternity relief came, in the form of thawing snow and more bearable temperature, in a deep valley forested with pines.

But where the winds had calmed and the air had warmed, something else took their place in chilling him. An ever-present sensation of malice, one that he had long ago learned to connect to restless spirits, lingered over the woods.

“Oh. I see. Falkreath is cursed.”

The horse chose then to snort, as if in reply. Which was silly. It was a horse.

–

Falkreath tested him in ways that he did not expect. In Skyrim, the dead did not have the manners to wait in crypts to unleash their frustrations on living intruders. In Skyrim, the dead sought the living, in the open, even in broad daylight.

The old, mummified corpses that shambled around the lowlands, dressed in brittle armor and wielding rusted iron swords, were not so hard to predict or outmaneuver. The silver of his weapon bit easily into them, and the spectral glow before their eye sockets vanished.

The skeletons, held together by the same necromancy that drove them, were more familiar and even easier to kill.

Then there were frightening unknowns. As he approached the western side of a vast lake, his instincts screamed in warning. He kicked his horse, his poor horse who had already given so much, into a gallop. They took off and slowed back to a trot after a mile.

In the years to come, Kyndoril would learn that the barrows south of Falkreath's lake were legendary for their connection to the first of vampires. Furthermore, Falkreath's history was drenched in blood, spilled first by Ysgramor's armies, and then over successive years while control passed between early human kingdoms. The ruins and crypts spread throughout the woods were a testament to eras of border wars.

Need carried him out of Falkreath Hold. Whim and curiosity led him to consider the Druadach Mountains, to ride west and up through misty crags, past stretches of dense grass and thick moss and gnarled trees. Through old Nordic fortifications, all but abandoned, for humans had settled around them to herd goats and farm whatever space the mountains granted them. In days, he came upon a vast, ancient Dwemer fortress at the headwaters of the Karth River.

Markarth, Kyndoril resigned himself to believe, was a good place to end his travels. He ate what rations he had left and let the horse graze for a while before handing it off to the stablemaster.

Markarth, as he soon remembered, was not a welcoming place. Multitudes of humans roamed the streets. The tall, pale Nords, who at first seemed the most numerous among them, were unsympathetic to elves. There was no charity to be found. And in thick furs and simple Alinoran garb, he was not dressed for the part of a humble priest of the Nine.

But the city had its underclasses. Lowest of all were the Reachmen, who occupied the farthest corners of the city. Often beneath the city, where the halls of the Dwemer had begun to collapse. Those who could spent their days out of those warrens, doing some menial work for the Nords above – digging, working ore into metal, laboring for merchants, or even serving in some wealthy home if they were lucky. The warrens were a haven away from that. A dark, depressing haven that stank of refuse and dead rats.

The Reachmen did not care that he slept in the warrens. And they didn't seem to notice when small amounts of food went missing from decent stashes. It became an easy, if tiresome life. One where he passed nights lying on his cloak, memories drifting in Cyrodiil or Vulkhel Guard.

But one day, as Kyndoril pulled the lid from a barrel, he felt a tap on his back and a jolt in his chest.

Heart still hammering, he turned to face whoever had caught him. And he was shocked to see an aging Bosmer standing there, grinning at him like he was enjoying a game. And... fingering a bone knife at his belt. None of the Reachmen, he knew, were bold enough to carry a weapon as he did. In fact, it seemed odd that the Bosmer dressed as they did, and covered himself in a thick wolf skin cloak.

“Enjoying Markarth, kinlord?”

Kyndoril gaped at him. “Not a kinlord. Just another elf. An elf who means no offense.”

“Is that why you're raiding the fish?”

“I'm also a hungry elf.”

“And we'd love to have you for dinner.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes! High Elf pairs nicely with juniper berry and mead.”

The danger of fighting someone half your size is that they can stab lower than you can block. He and the Bosmer both knew this. Which is why he didn't bother reaching for his sword.

“Are you sure we can't be reasonable about this?”

The Bosmer opened his mouth, but the question had only been intended to distract. One sleeping charm, and the mer was out like a light.

But that left him with a new problem. A Reach...mer of some import lay unconscious near a supply of food. That scene would not endear him to anyone else. So Kyndoril took some cured salmon and ale and hurried away.

He made his way across the city, past the crowds, to one of the canals. There he enjoyed his meal and wondered where he would sleep next, just to avoid complications of the morning.

The decision was made for him.

He woke next in the dark, with an ache in his head and the familiar smell of the warrens all around him. Then he heard a woman speak.

“Sorry about that. Thought it was you, but we can't be too careful.”

A Reachwoman in a fur robe sat next to a fire. Her hair was gray and her complexion had wrinkled, but there was an uncanny youth in her face, her demeanor, her posture – the kind that skilled mages, even humans, can maintain long beyond typical years.

“Hope I didn't damage your memory with that knock. Do you remember me? We went into Oblivion together? Made your boyfriend the Emperor?”

Images came rushing back. “You're... that werewolf...?”

The woman frowned. “Yes. Werewolf. That's my name.”

The Bosmer spoke up somewhere to his left. “It's Raghnailt, you asshole.”

“Raghnailt,” Kyndoril repeated. He looked back at the Bosmer, and imagined his hair up in a swirl. Oh, how elven fashions had changed. “Right. And... you. You're... Brenor, that fan....” His heart raced and his eyes watered in spite of him. “You're both still alive. After everything.... After all of this....”

Raghnailt and her adoring fan traded looks.

“What's happened to you?” Raghnailt asked. “You wouldn't be here... crying like this... if everything was fine.”

He looked at the two of them – both old, both curious, both... sadly suspicious of his sudden arrival in their midst. And he knew that if he wanted anything to go in his favor in Markarth, he would need their trust. And their help.

“I've lost everything. I've left the isles and I can never return.”

Brenor shook his head. “Let me guess. Thalmor, right?”

“Yes...? But how would you know them?”

“They're the reason we couldn't stay in Valenwood. The Thalmor didn't give the humans a lot of options when they came. It was obey them, get out, or die. And Raghnailt isn't someone's dog. We left.”

“But why come back to Skyrim?”

“I think I missed the scenery,” said Raghnailt. “And maybe Markarth needed me. There's not much the Nords trust a witch to do. But this is my home. And my home needed a wyress.”

Wyresses, for the uninitiated, are priests who engage in a northwestern form of worship of the Green, known instead as the Wyrd. Most of their number are thought to be human women venerating Y'ffre, acting as keepers of the natural world and history. In that way, they are a close match for the Bosmeri Spinners. However, some covens have their quirks. Not all are peaceful groves and flowers and songs of the Wyrd.

“Not the Hircinic type?” Kyndoril asked.

“Only when someone needs me to be. And you? Why would the Thalmor go after a highborn elf like you?”

It had been a long time since Kyndoril had been asked to recount his past. It was something he tried to avoid. But for them?

“Silabaene caught me in Cyrodiil, after I surrendered to the Empire. If you heard of that business about a stolen Elder Scroll, yes, that was me. No, I did not murder those college mages. Silabaene killed them while waiting for me. We fought. I was forced to run away with Ohmonir. Your silver ring saved me.”

“Well, good thing you had it,” Raghnailt said.

He went on in detail, telling her and Brenor every important memory. Ohmonir's death, fleeing, dealing with Nocturnal and her pests, meeting Sillawe. Years as a servant of Talos, then Stendarr. Life as an elven couple in Cyrodiil. Their journey to Alinor. The tragedies that met them there.

Then he reached his tale of the Maormer.

“I offered them the silver ring and some information on my island. I don't think the Maormer will be pleased when they get there and find the reefs, but....”

He stopped. Raghnailt and Brenor's eyes had gone wide, and Brenor looked ready to burst with laughter.

“You know,” said Raghnailt, “there was a rumor about that ring. The person who gave it to me said that they'd been told by someone else, who'd heard it from some other guy.... Anyway, that might have once belonged to Phynaster herself.”

“What?”

“Guess that great elven hero of long life bought you a few years, hm?”

“You can't be serious!”

“I'm sitting in an ancient dwarven hole in the ground talking to a banished elf king who had a kid with a Snow Elf,” said Raghnailt. “Anything goes.”

“You mean to tell me that I had the Ring of Phynaster and now it's in the hands of some Maormeri pirates.”

“Maybe. A rumor, like I said. Wonder what sod will end up with it next?”

“Some scavenger with low standards, if anyone. Might be Phynaster's, but it doesn't look like much.”

“That's what I said.”

Having met Raghnailt, his fortunes turned. Kyndoril became a guest where he had once been a tolerated loiterer. And after a modest feast, he took some time to thank the Aedra, including the oft-neglected god who might very well have carried him through Oblivion, away from Silabaene's grasp, out of reach of the Imperials, and through Maormeri hands.

 


	14. The Reign of Queen Raghnailt

More news followed his arrival in Skyrim. Just one day before the eve of Sun's Dusk, the Aldmeri Dominion delivered an ultimatum to the Emperor of Cyrodiil, and the Empire refused their demands. The Dominion dropped all pretense of good will, and the Great War began.

Years of fretting resumed. Kyndoril's sole point of hope was that the Prime Battlereeve of Alinor demanded years of training for each and every mer who would see combat, and that the war would end before his own child could be thrown into it. Meanwhile, he lived in the hole that Raghnailt afforded him, ate what paltry meals the Reachmen could provide, and took no more lovers.

But he was not entirely idle. As a wyress and elder, Raghnailt was one of the city's Reach matriarchs and she directed him. Reachmen returned from the harsh labors of Markarth, and he served as a healer, treating everything from bruises to severe trauma. The warrens needed medicine, linen, and the support of the Imperial Divines, so he acted as a courier and made arrangements with alchemists and priests. The Reachmen needed more assistants for the midwives. He offered his time.

The warrens were not touched by the Great War, for the Nords of Markarth would not give Reachmen the opportunity to join the hold's guard, nor approve of the Empire recruiting from them. The honor of entering Skyrim's warrior class was reserved for Nords and those they considered true brothers. Mer, betmer, and the inferior people of the Reach had no place among them. So said the Nords then, as they would decades later during the Stormcloak rebellion. So-called traditionalists are always quick to dismiss their own histories when it assures their place above all others.

This is why, during the third year of the war, the Reach was devoid of its Imperial forces. It would be a lie to say that Raghnailt _conquered_ Markarth. There was no one to conquer. Even calling it a coup would have given the Nords too much credit. Raghnailt needed only to lead her mob to Understone Keep, point out the _mild_ disadvantage that the Nords had created for themselves, and _suggest_ that they would all be better off if the Jarl of Markarth removed his arse from the dwarven throne. The Nords saw the wisdom in this. That is how Raghnailt took the throne and formed a group of elders and wyresses into a new council to govern the Reach.

For a handful of Nords, this was a death sentence. The Reachmen could not forgive the landowners who had murdered their fellows, worked so many to death, and starved even more. The justice that followed was one that Kyndoril could not prevent. And despite every high ideal he believed he held, he was not sure he cared, when the condemned once had every opportunity to grant the same mercy and refused.

Still, he tried to suggest a somewhat lighter sentence to Raghnailt, away from other ears. And he was quietly rebuffed.

“You've seen what Markarth has been through, Kyndoril,” Raghnailt told him. “And Markarth will not suffer them any longer. This does not involve your soft heart.”

Well, that was that. But another question weighed on him.

“And if you were the only one to decide?” he asked her.

Raghnailt drew herself to full height. And Kyndoril remembered the younger woman, ruthless and deadly in battle, before she spoke. “I've killed men for far less than murder. The council has made its decision.”

“Yes,” said Kyndoril. “And you're right. Despite my bleating, I do respect it. I suppose you'll be presiding, then.”

“Yes, and not getting my fur bloody. A shame. They might die just a bit faster if I did.”

“Remind me not to cross you.”

“You really need reminding?”

He heard tales later that Raghnailt, Wyress of the Elder Gods, bound the souls of the landowners to the stone of the mountain, condemning them to remain until the Dragon's End. But as he knew, Raghnailt was not so horrid. The Silver-Blood patriarch and his partners in crime were permitted their last rites and were given a swift death. They received honorable Nordic funerals. And the priests consecrated the execution grounds to encourage their souls to depart from Nirn. That was the end of it.

The rest of the Nords, and all people dwelling in the Reach, knew peace. There was no need for further bloodshed. The years of slavery, poor wages, false famine, and cruelty had ended. The mountains recovered from their shock and moved on.

As for the Empire, its remaining advisors and diplomats were asked to stay so that they could begin drafting terms of a treaty and petition the Emperor for the Reach's sovereignty. The council knew the vulnerability of the new country, caught between High Rock and Skyrim, two lands with longstanding hatred for the so-called barbarians between them, and eras of claims to the mountains.

It nearly succeeded. As the Great War between the Empire and the Dominion ended, they caught the ear of Titus Mede II, and negotiations began. The Reach would recognize Imperial rule and offer its silver and juniper cultivar in trade, if the Empire recognized them as a new province. And couriers brought word from an Empire humbled by defeat, more willing than ever to extend friendship and good will for the sake of Tamriel.

Unfortunately, reactionaries happened.

Their first warning came months into the final negotiations with the Empire. It began with the disappearance of the former Jarl Hrolfdir. All of Markarth began to search for him, fearing that some fool had taken him in revenge for the past. Mere weeks later, frantic messengers arrived on exhausted horses.

The eastern Reach burned. Old Hroldan and its ancient walls had fallen to arcane forces spoken of in Nord legend. Farmers, goatherds, and miners had been put to the sword, and the lucky few who escaped to the west bore festering wounds from arrows that had just missed something more immediately fatal.

Ulfric Stormcloak had come to the Reach. His militia had been rallied from bloodthirsty war veterans and anyone outraged that the Empire would submit to the demands of elves. In their eyes, it was bad enough the elves had demanded a ban on worship of Talos, the god of humanity's dominion of Tamriel. But for the Empire to even consider granting freedom to lands and thralls that Talos had once seized for the glory of Skyrim? That would be answered with blood and unrelenting suffering.

The Reach council fought amongst themselves. Raghnailt and Brenor were no fools. They knew what forces the city faced, what Ulfric Stormcloak was capable of. Tales of the Great War and pained final words from dying humans told a detailed, morbid story of what was to come. They were among those who chose a tactical retreat, with each and every civilian willing to follow them.

A sorcerer by the name of Madanach loathed them for this, and insisted on meeting the Nords in battle. His fellows rebuked him, but his anger and will persisted.

Madanach's choice of action announced itself days later with dozens of dremora, who were more interested in cowing the people of Markarth than decorating the streets with their blood. Bound as they were to the old sorcerer's will, they could not cause unwanted harm.

Kyndoril waited, perfectly safe from daedric assault, as Raghnailt had instructed the day before. He stood at one of the old entrances to the warrens, watching as humans scurried around the great armored fiends, and wondered to himself which realm of Oblivion had opened upon the city of Markarth.

Kyndoril's ears caught an unearthly growl, and a single word from a throat several times too large for any Breton.

“ _ **BAL....”**_

Clearly, Raghnailt was not pleased. The werewolf squeezed past him and stomped off into the pale light of the morning.

Brenor came running behind him.

“Raghnailt! Kyndoril, where is Raghnailt going?”

Somewhere up the street, an outraged dremora began to swear and threaten to make a fur rug.

“I think she's off to rip Madanach's throat out,” said Kyndoril, with the nonchalance that grows from seeing everything go to Oblivion one too many times. “Hope she remembers to clean her teeth after.”

“What?! That's not good! We need to get out of here!”

“Are the Nords already that close?”

“What do you think?!”

A rumble sounded in the distance, something like thunder miles away. But the sky was clear. Kyndoril looked down at Brenor. The Bosmer wore a look of fear that Kyndoril did not remember from him, even in the fires of the Deadlands, even when his grand champion fell.

“If you know the way, go.” Kyndoril rested a hand on the pommel of his stolen sword. “Take your people and run. When Raghnailt returns I will send her.”

“You'd better follow us,” Brenor said. “You're getting out of this. We're not just going to watch you disappear again.”

“If I vanish, then so be it. The Reachmen have been good to me. I can spare a few minutes more if they all escape.”

“You... you lanky moron! You'd better catch up to us!”

“Aedra willing. Godspeed, Brenor.”

Brenor turned and sprinted back into the underground. And as Kyndoril folded his arms and waited, frightened Reachmen who were brave enough to walk past tall, fearsome dremora trickled past him.

A warhorn sounded. And a massive ball of burning pitch came screaming over the wall. It soared far above his head and struck the cliffs above Understone Keep.

They were running out of time.

Just as Kyndoril considered fleeing after Brenor, he heard a low, deafening howl and felt a surge of magicka. Spectral forms appeared out of thin air: some beast-like, others vaguely man-shaped, all directing their gaze upward.

“ _ **DEFEND THE CITY.”**_

The massive werewolf that was Raghnailt crouched by the guard tower above the city, roaring orders to her ghostly army in a voice that echoed throughout Markarth.

“ _ **DEFEND THESE PEOPLE TO THE LAST. DO THIS AND BE RELEASED FROM YOUR EARTHLY BONDS.”**_

The ghosts answered with cheers and a bestial cacophony. Raghnailt leapt and landed on the nearby road with enough force to crack the stone, then turned to find Kyndoril standing there.

“Nice speech?” he offered.

The werewolf wagged her tail once.

“But I didn't know you were a necromancer.”

The werewolf tilted her head, then leaned down to snarl at him.

“ _ **IT IS NOT NECROMANCY. THEY WERE TRAPPED IN THE OOZE. I AM A WYRESS. I GIVE THEM FREEDOM. NOW FOLLOW.”**_

She led him into the passage, where anxious stragglers had waited. As Raghnailt waved a clawed hand for them to join, and Kyndoril remembered his word.

“Brenor is leading the others on already,” he said. “I told him I would send you to him.”

“ _ **DID YOU. I SHOULD HURRY. THERE MAY BE METAL CREATURES IN OUR PATH.”**_

“Go. May we meet again.”

“ _ **GOOD LUCK, ELF KING.”**_

With that, she bent and took off on all fours, leaping great strides as if to overtake a charging mammoth. The sound of massive foot pads and claws on stone echoed and soon grew faint.

That left him with the rest of the stragglers. The human stragglers, none of them over five-and-a-half feet in height for Reachmen were short among Bretons, none of them able to keep pace with his Aldmeri legs. Kyndoril slowed to a walk.

–

The way was not hard to find. The old halls were dimly lit with gas lamps and many paths branched off, but Raghnailt had chosen a fairly direct route and the correct passages had been marked with magic flares. As the underground trembled and the sounds of blasts traveled through the old dwarven pipes, Kyndoril's worried mind produced visions of Nords not long behind, seeking victims to pull back to the surface.

As these thoughts tormented him, his ears twitched, alert to screams and cries not too far _ahead_. The people behind him fell back, gasping and whispering in alarm. Kyndoril raised a hand and waved at them to quiet.

There were no sounds of fighting, but the curses and desperation in the humans' voices were not reassuring. He braced himself and began to jog, to see what had befallen them.

The hall had caved in. The hall and a sheer mountain of rock and debris. Some of the humans had thrown themselves at it, scraping away handfuls of dirt, pulling in vain at stones that none could move with hands or the magic they possessed. Some had fallen into tears against the wall, screaming for people trapped beneath. Others wept, cursed their fate, and cursed the Nords.

It could not end there. It should not have ended there. Kyndoril added what muscle and magic he could to their attempts to clear the way. But there was nothing. Nothing in them that could shift _tons_ of solid stone and metal.

After several unproductive minutes, he turned back to the crowd of the stranded and wondered if there was any leader among them. No one had even tried to call for order yet.

“Listen, everyone!”

Kyndoril's words barely rose above the arguments and wailing. He took a breath and tried again.

“If you would, please!”

There was no response. In a crowd of dozens, perhaps a hundred, one person might have yelled back at him to shut up. He could not tell who had replied, and did not care.

“Could I have your attention?”

“LISTEN TO THE MORTAL.”

Kyndoril flinched violently as a rumbling, inhuman voice carried in the hall. A dremora, in spiked armor with a hot red glow, had appeared in their midst. The crowd hushed.

“YOU WILL GIVE THE PUNY ELF YOUR ATTENTION.”

“I.... I don't know who summoned that, but–”

An elderly woman with thin tattoos webbing her face raised her hand and grinned at him.

“We'll talk about it later! For now I need you all to focus,” said Kyndoril. “Yes, this is a horrible situation! But if there is one thing I know you humans are capable of it is staring down the worst as if it were nothing!”

This was a lie. Decades of Cyrodiil had proven to him that humans were beyond terrible at facing a crisis. They merely excelled at being reckless and having a disproportionate amount of dumb luck.

“Who knows what we will face if we turn back now? But we must also acknowledge when we cannot move tens of thousands of pounds of bullshit! I have exhausted my magicka and you have spent your strength. We should seek another path... and... and weigh our options.”

“I'm not going back!” yelled one of the men. “The Nords will slaughter us!”

There was no denying that. And he wondered what on Nirn he would tell a terrified crowd, while a battle raged somewhere above.

“It... is true that these so-called warriors lack honor,” Kyndoril said. “But they are not fools. The people of Markarth have always been its life's blood. The Nords know this. They do not cull what they need.”

This was met by uproar. As the crowd fell back into arguing with itself, Kyndoril picked his way to the woman who had just summoned the dremora. The dremora who smelled of brimstone.

“You won't get through to them like that, elf,” said the woman.

“How could I? This is a disaster. But... well met. I am Kyndoril.”

“I know. Raghnailt spoke highly of you. Just call me Bothela.”

“And... may I ask your friend's name?”

The dremora glared at him. “I already know this whelp.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You intruded upon my tower,” said the dremora. “You spoke meaningless praises of Dagon and then fled like a dog.”

“Oh! That was... you?” Kyndoril felt his skin cool as sweat began. “You're not really still mad about that, are you?”

“My lord removed me from my post.”

“That is a pity.”

“I scrubbed cesspits of the Void for a hundred years.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Do you know what shits in the Void, mortal?”

Kyndoril looked helplessly between the dremora and Bothela, who watched their conversation with amusement.

“Look,” said Kyndoril, “you were an admirable sentinel, but I will not apologize for thwarting your Prince. How did you even meet this kind human?”

Bothela answered. “The veil between the Mundus and Oblivion is thin. I just invited him across for teatime.”

“Tea. With a dremora.”

“It was a satisfactory gift,” said the dremora.

Kyndoril thought and braced himself for what he would ask. “Well, good dremora, I know you're expecting someone to ask this. What should we mortals do next?”

“I'd start by retreating a hundred feet before more of this feeble tunnel collapses.”

 


	15. The Markarth Incident

For Kyndoril and those who were left behind, there was nothing left but to cower in the deep warrens, where they at least had food and supplies left. He spent what magicka he had in an effort to hide their presence. They waited down there for the battle to end, and after a matter of days that felt like an eternity, they emerged, timid and cautious, to the city.

They were met with horrors. The scent of burning flesh was thick in the air. Blood stained the streets. So many corpses hung from scaffolding in front of the city mines.

They were soon found. Ulfric's militia were not content to slaughter their defenders and leave them to mourn. Their Stuhn demanded that the survivors of Markarth earn their mercy. Kyndoril was no exception; the Nords were too happy to find an Altmer among their captives. As they divided the others for work, they marched him toward Understone Keep.

A small party waited before the brazen doors, and Kyndoril's escort shoved him to his knees.

“An elf! What should we do with it?”

“I am a humble priest of the Nine,” Kyndoril fought to keep his voice steady. “And I can heal wounds.”

“The Nine?”

Kyndoril looked up and saw a young Nord man. His face was framed by blond braids, his eyes were set in hatred, and his voice held danger. His shoulders were decorated with black fur and some regalia that was unfamiliar to him. This was not a Nord to be trifled with.

“Since when,” said the Nord, “does an elf worship Talos?”

That Nord, as he guessed, was Ulfric Stormcloak. And Kyndoril, even on his knees, had him at one disadvantage. Ulfric was single-minded and considered himself a righteous man.

“I approached Talos centuries ago,” Kyndoril admitted. “In my youth. In my darkest hour. He granted my frail wife her health. We had a son.”

“What of your Dominion, elf?”

The home he'd found, then lost again. The entire reason he had fled to Markarth. The reason he'd watched Markarth break from tyranny as Alinor did not, as he once failed to, before it all went to ruin again. Faces he would never see again, all for his cowardice, floated into his mind.

“The Dominion took my family from me!” Kyndoril's outburst surprised even him. But he went on, determined not to break. Not this time. “My wife! My son! I do not even know if he lives!”

One of the Nords shook his head, but Ulfric regarded him with a furrowed brow. “Very well. On your feet, elf. Follow me.”

Kyndoril swallowed and stood, backing away to let Ulfric pass. Then he followed reluctantly behind him. As the man turned south, Kyndoril feared that he would be brought to the mines, or a noose, but Ulfric instead walked to the heart of the city, to a passage between the market and mining districts. There, a door led down into an ancient dwarven chamber that had been repurposed long ago. A Nordic vision of Talos, a warrior driving a blade into the gaping maw of a serpent, stood tall on a dais.

“You will turn this into a fitting temple.” Ulfric's voice reverberated in the chamber. “And you will serve here. Do not make me rethink this, elf.”

“Y...yes, my lord,” Kyndoril forced the words on his tongue. “I am humbled. I will not waste this kindness, my lord.”

“See that you don't.”

Ulfric Stormcloak left him there. Kyndoril turned to face the statue of Talos again, and allowed himself just a few minutes to grieve and beseech Lorkhan and the Aedra for any aid they could give him.

In the days to come, he swept away the dust, washed the grime for the floors, and sought anything that would please visitors to the gods. Especially candles. Kyndoril lost track of how many damned candles that he had to bring into the shrine to achieve decent lighting, and then he thanked Magnus for dwarven engineering and the vents that let the smoke escape and carried in fresh air. Rugs and baskets of northern flowers brightened the gloomy scene. An old supply of incense turned up, and soon Kyndoril had a decent, if somewhat Aldmeri, shrine to the God of Man.

His returns to the city were not given solely to Talos. He stole back into the warrens at every chance, food and medicine in his bag, hands ready to heal whatever beatings the Nords had given the Reachmen in the aftermath of the battle, as they labored in the mines and under the demands of the militia. And then it was back to the damning comfort of his temple, to keep his own masters appeased.

Ulfric never returned to see his work, but doubtless the Nords who visited spoke well of it. Kyndoril remained at his post, with relief and shame that he had succeeded in ingratiating himself. For while he labored in the name of Talos and slept in safety behind the great statue, Ulfric busied himself making demands of the Empire and terrorizing the people of Markarth with gruesome, torturous executions. It would end, he promised, when the Empire ceased all deliberations for a free Reach province, reaffirmed Skyrim's dominion of the eastern Druadachs, and permitted worship of Talos in the city.

Kyndoril knelt before his shrine with a new reverence. Lorkhan, god of death and limits, let this end. The Reach was willing to recognize your Empire. Skyrim is still beholden to it. How long can this go on?

He did not wait for Lorkhan to answer, and reached to the Void with other names. Lorkhaj, if the god was so inclined. Then Shor, for he was the aspect once favored by the Nords. Sheor, for the sake of the Reachmen.

And then, of course, he turned his mind to the Aedra with apologies and similar prayers.

Perhaps the gods heard his pleas. For Ulfric made the mistake of forgetting that the Aldmeri Dominion had eyes and ears among the Imperials who received his demands. Mere weeks after his assault upon the city, the Empire and Ulfric reached an accord. And justice came swift, on eagle's wings.

Kyndoril had not expected a Thalmor inquisition, but justice was also thorough and found him sleeping on his makeshift bed behind the shrine. The hard toe of a glass and moonstone boot met his ribs. He awoke to the sight of a handful of heavily armored Altmer glowering over him.

Lorkhan was quite a fickle god.

“I know what this looks like,” Kyndoril said. “Auri-El's scales, this is not what it looks like!”

“Then what _is_ it, wretch?”

“I swear to you, I was coerced! Ulfric put me here to serve under pain of death, you must believe me!”

“Really.”

“There are no gods but the Aedra! There is no room in my heart for false gods or daedric corruptions of the soul! I am guided by the Hand of Auri-El on my shoulder, watched by the Eye of Magnus ever upon–”

The Thalmor were not impressed with Kyndoril's babbling. “You're from Alinor.”

Kyndoril shut his mouth, and his teeth started chattering. The Thalmor forced him to his feet, and once again he made the walk up to Understone Keep.

As a heathen priest in violation of the White-Gold Concordat, he knew what awaited him. He expected humiliation. Pain. Death. The Legionnaires, unable to overrule the Dominion in this, averted their gazes as they passed through the great hall. Nords watched, some expressionless, some barely masking surprise or anger. Soon they had passed out of the eyes of the public, into corridors walked only by guards and nobles, and approached a heavy dwarven door.

The Thalmor brought him into a sparsely-furnished hall, where blankets had just been spread on dusty stone beds, and a single Alinoran battlemage in gilded black robes sat at a cramped table, poring over Aldmeri and Imperial documents.

Without a warning, the floor rose. The justiciars had thrown him at the battlemage's feet. And a gloved hand reached down, found his chin, and forced him to raise his head.

Kyndoril looked into Ondolemar's shocked green eyes. A bitter cross of relief and anguish dropped into his stomach. Ondolemar's mouth opened, then closed.

Before either of them found the ability to speak again, a high-pitched voice rose somewhere to his left.

“He thought you said a priest of Talos.”

“So did I,” said Ondolemar. He looked back at the justiciars. “A mer? This mer? Were there any others?”

Kyndoril chose then to speak up. “Don't waste their time. I was alone.”

“The shrine will remain under guard. As for you. We're going to have a little chat, _priest_ , as soon as I can spare some time. Until then....”

Ondolemar withdrew his hand from Kyndoril's jaw and gestured at the bare room. “Make yourself at home.”

Kyndoril stared. Then pushed himself to his feet. Ondolemar turned back to his paperwork, and Kyndoril's eyes swept over the tables again. Documents. Stains from ale. More documents. Platters of food.

Without another word, he took two slices of bread and some meat and went to sit on one of the beds. The guards watched him in open disbelief.

He looked to the side. A brown-furred Khajiit in a positively baggy shirt stared back. After a moment of this, his soft face wrinkled in a hiss. Kyndoril turned to eat in peace.

–

A shrine to Auri-El had been placed in the sparse barracks. It was the first he had seen up close for nearly two centuries and yet it was unmistakable – a moonstone sun stood atop an engraved block of quartz. Someone had placed a bowl of water on a nearby table and left dried lavender as an offering.

Kyndoril ignored the nearby justiciars and knelt before the shrine. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the temple of his old home. The footsteps of the justiciars did not matter. The scratching of Ondolemar's pen faded. He could almost smell incense in the air pumped in by the dwarven pipes.

He wondered if the Dragon could see him. If he remembered their encounters in Cyrodiil so long ago. What he thought of him now, after years of forced distance, after so much time spent prostrate before Lorkhan's newest guise.

But perhaps it did not matter. What mattered was that the shrine was there, that nobody had come to pull him away from it, that he had this time, now, to offer his heart and soul to the Aedra, to bask in that small comfort they granted even in the belly of Understone Keep.

And he would stay there, as long as he could, until the Thalmor demanded his attention.

That time arrived sooner than he knew. A boot nudged his arm; he recoiled, found himself on his side, and looked up to see Ondolemar watching. His hands were folded behind his back. His face was set in a grim mask – one he remembered from his days in Auridon.

“Really? You come here under charges of heresy and you sleep before Auri-El?”

“I _was_ praying,” said Kyndoril.

“You snore.”

“I must have dozed off during prayers. But I can think of no safer place to sleep than at Auri-El's feet, though this is no statue.”

“If you are finished, follow me.”

Kyndoril stood, straightened his robes, then let Ondolemar lead him to a room across from the barracks door. It was about as bare as the rest of the space the Thalmor had been given; a fine desk of Imperial make had been provided, but his bed, like the others, was merely a stone slab padded with furs and blankets.

Ondolemar shut the door, locked it, and cast a spell over the walls. Kyndoril recognized the magic; the room had been muffled to all outside. And then Ondolemar walked to his desk. He did not sit, but leaned over it, hands splayed on the wooden top.

“Again, we meet,” said Ondolemar. “And this time... you pose a problem.”

Kyndoril sat himself on the bed and watched him. Or rather, his back. “What have I caused?”

“The Thalmor truly believe you dead. Your identity remains secret, for now. My justiciars are young. Ignorant. They know nothing of you or Luxurene. My superiors will have so many questions.”

“And... if I am discovered?”

“I don't think I need to tell you what the Thalmor will see in a mer who disappeared in a Maormeri raid and made no efforts to contact Alinor again, only to turn up later in a shrine to the false god.” Ondolemar straightened up and turned to him. “So. My justiciars tell me you claimed to be coerced.”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

Kyndoril took a breath. Then let out a long sigh. “I came to Markarth and stayed with the Reachmen. When the Dominion distracted the Empire, the Reachmen seized their hold and tried to bargain for recognition from the Empire.”

“And then Ulfric struck. I'm aware of the details. So you were among the populace here?”

“The militia caught me along with the rest of the survivors. Me. An elf. They were ready to... I don't know what they were thinking and I don't want to know.”

“And yet they spared you.”

“Ulfric commanded me to serve Talos. So I did. And each day, while he tortured the city, I prayed for intervention. If this is the price to pay....”

Ondolemar watched him quietly. His eyes were unreadable.

“What will become of Markarth?” Kyndoril asked.

“Ulfric Stormcloak has been arrested for heresy, for war crimes, for violation of the White-Gold Concordat,” said Ondolemar. “The Empire is treating the Reachmen kindly while it negotiates with Skyrim. I doubt the Reach will have its freedom, but the Empire is... displeased with the Stormcloak militia. And... as for you.”

Kyndoril waited.

“I would not execute you or any mer in your position. But I cannot simply let you walk free.”

“Well. Are you the magistrate of Markarth now?”

“Magistrate,” said Ondolemar. “Aldarch, as my station requires. Diplomat. And commander of these justiciars.”

“And where are your superiors?”

“Solitude, thank the Aedra.”

“Then what will become of me this time? I have nothing to give you. I have wronged nobody but the true Aedra. I have no house to be confined in.”

“And yet your sins, regardless of their nature, remain. You will remain here while I formally review your charges. In eight days, perhaps you will go free.”

“Then that is a blessing.” Kyndoril felt his ears flush, while his mind returned to past years. “It is... good to be in your company again.”

“I imagine it is.”

“But... must this be so formal? I have missed your presence.”

Ondolemar took a moment to catch on, but then he smirked. “Once again, I have you in my office. And you offer...? _Really_ , Kyndoril?”

“If you would still have me.”

Ondolemar rolled his eyes. “Tonight.”

–

He dreamed, one night, of Vulkhel Guard. Of a soft bed, with a lover at his side, and a strong arm wrapped around his waist.

He came around to the smell of wood and a jarring bounce, to light filtering through a burlap sack around him, to paper rustling under his shirt, against his chest. As soon as he was over the surprise, Kyndoril unfolded the letter.

_Dear heart,_

_Forgive me for not waking you, but I had to act fast. You are on a cart bound for Riften. You will be safe there. Do not return to Markarth. If the Thalmor learn who you are, I will not be able to protect you again._

_Your son is still alive and safe in training. He has still not laid eyes on this dreary continent._

_Enclosed is a cursed hat that I thought you might want back. And some food. Don't starve._

_I will think fondly of you,_

_O_

_PS: Ren'dar apologizes for hissing._

Kyndoril read the note again, then folded it and tucked it, with some difficulty, in a pocket. And he felt around for the curse Ondolemar had mentioned.

His hand came to rest on a gray leather cowl.

  
  


END

 


End file.
